


Does It Show

by roggietaylor



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s, 1970s Era Queen (Band), Chance Meetings, Early Queen (Band), M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Brian May, Pining, Smile (Band) Era, much less angst than usual, starts in the 60s goes to the 80s about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28143453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roggietaylor/pseuds/roggietaylor
Summary: Most of Brian's youth has been spent studying and nervously avoiding the opposite sex and has accepted that with his looks and his charisma, or lack there of, there's no point to chasing women. But when the most beautiful woman he's ever seen floats in and out of his life he works up the courage for one grand romantic gesture to get her attention. Though it backfires, at least he's gets a drummer and a song out of it.
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor
Comments: 41
Kudos: 66





	1. 1969

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I know I'm a big angst with a happy ending person, but this fic is almost a zero in the angst department. The idea came to me and it just didn't feel like a concept that ought to be so heavy so I wrote this more fun one <3 There is a rewrite of the final chapters I'm considering so this may be seven chapters rather than eight but for now it's at eight. I hope you like it so far and if you do please please please comment <33

It wasn’t that he was naturally suited for math, he suited himself for it. He spent hours teaching himself to teach himself. His father told him when he was young that the only jobs with a real monetary reward were the ones that required lots of maths, physics too. Things most people wouldn’t bother to learn. So he taught himself to be good at it. And for the most part, he’d got himself past the point of ever getting so lost in a concept he had to read the textbook out loud in tiny increments to explain it to himself. Mostly, he could breeze through his lessons and his homework with the practiced ease of someone who spent the years meant to be shared with a girlfriend, with his nose in a textbook.

But not right then.

He’d listened, paid attention, took extensive notes during the lecture. And yet, sitting in the library, the idea behind all of his notes drifted from him and the more he tried to remember it all the further it felt. Each little noise made by the others at other desks other tables, made him grit his teeth and fight the urge to shout at them all to be quiet. He tapped the eraser end of his pencil against his text book, just under the line he’d reread about five times now.

Moments like this, moments spent struggling to grasp a concept written out in a textbook for him, made him feel like he’d taken a few leaps backwards in his own schooling. Made him feel like he might be wasting the precious money he’d been sent to school with.

It always went away of course. If he just gave it an hour or two to sink into his subconscious, he’d understand it before dinner time, but he always made the attempt to muscle through it, even when it made him want to tear his hair out.

Someone across the room let their bag land on the floor with a loud thud that echoed through the quiet library. Brian glanced up to glare. He felt silly doing it only because the few times the culprit of some loud disturbance in the library had caught him glaring at them he’d looked away, quickly lost all will to confront them about their inconsiderateness. But he still glared at the back of the boy who slammed his bag down. And when he got bored of that he gave up on his maths and packed it all up. All except for the supplementary book he’d found in hopes that it might explain what his textbook hadn’t.

He wandered in the vague direction of where he’d found the book and started scanning for the right shelves, the right shelf, then the right place along it. Counting and recounting the few books out of order to try and place his own. It didn’t feel fair that the maths, the physics, the chemistry books should all be treated like second class citizens compared to the humanities. He took the first two misplaced books off the shelf, committed now to finding their rightful place.

Through the gaps in the books, and from his unusually high vantage point, he caught a glimpse of the person on the opposite side, a flash of someone’s hair. He always hated that. It felt so uncomfortably intimate and more often than not, with his height advantage, he felt like he must look more intentional than he ever was when he caught their eyes by mistake. He tended to just switch shelves for a bit when that happened. And he would’ve done, but then he saw her eyes.

Downcast as she inspected a book presumably in her hand. They were so big, her lashes so dark, and when she glanced up, glanced at a book to Brian’s right, he could see the bright blue colour they were. He adjusted, moved up on his toes by a few millimetres, saw the straight angle of her rather delicate nose. Her soft cheek bones. The shelving made it impossible to see her face in it’s entirety, he could only get the tight frames, but they were enough to be sure of her beauty. For once in his life, he was hoping, praying even, to have a stranger look back at him through the shadowy gaps of the books. He wondered if he ought to say something, wondered what that something might be, and was cut off when she replaced the book on the shelf and cut off his sightline to her without batting an eye or ever seeing Brian. Though, he was fairly used to being invisible to women like that.

He heard her footsteps head left, so he did the same on his side of the shelf. Maybe they’d meet at the end, bump into each other, and maybe she’d see past his nose and unruly hair and agree to coffee at the very least. He could win her over with a coffee. Maybe.

But she was on a mission apparently. She flew out the end of the aisle, making it to the edge of the shelves far too early to bump into Brian and fast enough that if she had bumped into him she’d knock him clear over. She moved with a funny sort of grace. Like she was sure of herself but not quite feminine. He hurried up, just a bit, just enough to keep her in his sights as she headed for the front desk.

She flicked her long hair over her shoulder, grinned at the librarian behind the desk. From a distance, Brian could just see the white glint of her smile, could hear the librarian laugh at her charisma and charm, could admire how her light brown, or dark blonde hair slowly fell back across her shoulder. Brian never had that silky smooth weight to his hair, it was always big and frizzy no matter how hot he made the iron.

The librarian left her seat, searched the cards for something the woman had requested. _Now,_ Brian thought, _would be a good time to say hello._ He thought it. He stood at an awkward distance, out in the open space of the library, hoping everyone else was too focused on their studies to notice his awkward and unsophisticated gaze on the woman at the desk. He fiddled with his bag, tried to pretend he was busy looking for something inside of it as not to look like an actual stalker. He still caught glimpses of her while he did, trying to see her face, trying to get used to it so he wouldn’t be too lovestruck to speak to her if he ever thought of an opening line.

But the woman kept her gaze on the front door, only occasionally showing her profile off through the curtain of her hair that concealed most of it. And Brian never did think of an opening line, just blushed and rifled mindlessly through his papers until he saw the librarian return looking apologetic. The woman brushed it off and was gone, just like that, hurried out the main door and out of Brian’s life. And he hadn’t even got her name.

Unless.

He rushed to the front desk.

“How can I help you?” the librarian asked.

“What book were you looking for?” Brian asked a bit too quickly.

“I’m…sorry?” she cocked her head.

“Someone was just here, asked you for a book or—or something, and you didn’t have it?” Brian offered.

“Oh—right well—I’ll tell you what I’ve told every biology major all week, we don’t have any more copies of the textbook left and you’re better off biting the bullet buying a copy but I can go back and put you on a waiting list,” she said, sounding rather tired.

“So it’s—so it’s er—so could you give me the exact title of it,” Brian said, “I never wrote it down and...” his words trailed off as he watched the woman scribble down the title of the book.

“Seems as though a lot of students are after this book, you may want to let your professor know that quite a few of you won’t have it by the end of the first month.”

“I er, I think I will,” he said with a strange shake in his voice, like he was doing something horribly wrong by lying to this woman about his courses and if she found out she’d take back the slip of paper she’d written for him.

“Good luck finding a copy, I have a feeling you’ll need it,” she said with a laugh as she patted his hand. Brian thanked her and read the title over and over on his way out of the library. Trying to memorise it in case the paper got lost somewhere.

~~~

Was this going too far?

He stood at the on campus bookstore, a biology textbook he didn’t need on the counter, his wallet in his hand, and the clerk slowly but surely ringing him up.

What was his plan? To hunt her like a bird of prey and hand off an expensive book in the hopes that she’d give him the time of day? How was he meant to find her? He would’ve noticed if she visited the library often, that one encounter may have been her first and last trip inside. Beyond scouring the science buildings for her biology class, there wasn’t much sense in counting on seeing her again.

“Last one of these,” the clerk said. “Someone said the professor gave the syllabus out late, poor kids have been coming in, a fortnight into classes, begging me to get the next shipment of this bloody book in,” he shook his head.

“Oh, it’s the last one?” Brian felt a bit guilty taking the last of a book he didn’t even need but that also meant there was a good chance the woman would still need it and Brian’s gesture of handing it over might not be so useless.

“Well normally professors give us the estimated amounts, we order that, students pick them up before the semester, we order more if we need it. This prick did none of that, so we’re sort of working with last semesters overstock and orders that won’t be in for exactly sixteen days.” He took the money Brian had slid him across the counter and laid it out in the register.

“Did you er,” he cleared his throat, “did you happen to see a woman buying this?”

“Er,” the man looked up from the money and shrugged, “you’ll have to be more specific.”

“She’s—tall—tallish, maybe five foot eight or nine. Long blondish, brownish hair. Big blue eyes, I mean really big,” Brian said with an awkward stammer.

The clerk eyed him. “Why’d’you want to know?”

“Just curious,” he said much too defensively, then added, “a friend of mine, I just er—don’t want her to know I’ve got the book if she doesn’t, she’ll steal it.”

“Ah,” the clerk didn’t look convinced, Brian was never much of a salesman when it came to lying. “Well, no, I haven’t seen any tallish blondish women with big blue eyes through here.”

Was that a win? It felt like it in the moment but as he put his wallet away, substantially lighter, and took the book wrapped in brown paper, he wondered if maybe this was a very expensive dead end.

At least he could read it, or even sell it. Didn’t have to be a total waste, but if it didn’t serve it’s purpose it’d definitely still be an embarrassing waste.

~~~

His time at the library was normally spent so focused that the whole building could be on fire and he wouldn’t look up until his own hair was singed off. But now, his brand new biology textbook weighing his bag down, he was alert, focused on everyone who went in or out of the library. Waiting for her to pop back in, maybe check her status on the waiting list. And in that time, he got none of his work done. It all stayed folded up and put away in his bag, the only thing ready to spring from it was the textbook he had no use for.

The first day he tapped at his table, his chin in his hand, his eyes on the door, his fingertips playing a non existent fretboard against the tabletop. The second day he kept his hands busy by doodling. Nothing good, he was no artist, and frankly wasn’t too focused on his paper. But he doodled. The third day he wrote out the melodies he’d been humming to himself to keep busy. And on the fourth day he jotted down lyrics to match. No real poetry yet, just thoughts of her, of her beauty and how otherworldly it felt, especially viewed through the small gaps of a bookshelf. So captivating but still so unknown to him. He’d know her anywhere, but he’d never seen her face, not in it’s entirety. She was so beautiful she transcended the need to be seen, an ethereal being he could just barely capture in his lyrics. One that he was beginning to worry he may never see again.

“You never saw her before this?” Tim plucked at his bass. Their flat was always terribly cold, Brian could never stand it. Tim wasn’t fat by any stretch but he wasn’t bony in the way Brian was, the cold didn’t bother him the way it bothered Brian. “She’s a science major, surely there would’ve been some overlap between you two, even if it’s not the same science.”

“I would’ve remembered her,” Brian sighed. He took his bag off his shoulder, fed up with another day of pointlessly waiting for her. He told Tim days before why he spent so much time at the library despite the semester having practically just started. Tim had been good enough not to tease Brian when he admitted his idea of buying the textbook she needed in hopes she’d come looking for it. But Brian knew he thought it was silly, thought Brian was silly for trying it, and it didn’t feel good to prove him right. “I guess she found her own copy of the book.”

“Maybe you’re just not crossing paths—maybe she’s normally a night owl,” Tim offered. He’d been offering alternative reasons for where she might be all week. Each one less inspired than the last.

“Maybe,” Brian replied lazily.

“Well,” Tim cleared his throat over dramatically, “I know it’s not at the forefront of your mind right now but we still have the drummer auditions to go through so if you could, for a few days next week, _not_ visit the library and instead meet some of these poor sods that’ve answered our advert.”

“It’s most important that you see them play, I mean you’re the rhythm,” Brian said.

“Fuck’s sake, Brian, this is _our_ band,” he didn’t bother covering how exasperated he was. Fair enough, Brian figured. He’d been blowing off the responses they’d got to their audition flier for two days now in favour of sitting in a library doing absolutely fuck all, waiting for some mystery woman to reappear and let him love her.

“Alright,” Brian shook the thoughts from his head, “alright, I’ll be there bright and early soon as auditions start next week.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Brian didn’t linger. He ate a meager dinner and holed himself up in his room. The weight of the biology textbook mocked him, reminded him of what a stupid mistake he’d made. What the fuck was he going to do? Catch a glimpse of her, blindside her with an awkward introduction, something he was wont to do, then offer her an expensive book as a gift in exchange for an afternoon spent chatting? A woman of her calibre wouldn’t say yes to that. And if she did, then what? He’d have to talk to her. He was no fucking good at that. It’d taken him eighteen long years to lose his virginity and he still felt tense and nervous making conversation with that girl right up until they broke up. How was he meant to sit and be witty and charming and interesting with a stranger when he couldn’t do it with his only long-term girlfriend who had literally given him step-by-step instructions on how she wanted to be fucked?

He could still sell it, at very least the book was still in demand. He could make up a little of what he’d lost on it and try to make Tim forget he’d ever done something so childish.

~~~

He’d give himself until auditions started before he gave up and sold the damn thing. Three more days to try and spot her. He knew he wouldn’t. Knew deep down she wasn’t coming back and, if he was honest, part of him felt relief. He knew himself, knew he wasn’t handsome enough for a woman like that. Knew his looks would put her off before he ever managed to stammer through the little speech he’d gone over in his head a few times. The one that offered her a textbook and asked her out for coffee in the same strange breath. At least this way he was saved the humiliation of a rejection from someone so above him.

But only part of him felt that way. The other part felt like he might never forgive himself for not seeing her one last time, not introducing himself. So after a fruitless day, with two more left before he swore off this project, he came back. Sat in his usual seat and settled in for a long day of waiting. He opened his notebook, scanned the lyrics he’d written of her, and moved on quick. It felt silly now to have written all of that. Felt even more silly that he’d run it by Tim. He made a mental note to give Tim permission to tease him for this, he knew he’d earned it.

The front door opened. Brian finished scratching in shading hashmarks on the doodle of the table in front of his that he was working on, then looked up out of habit. Saw the door swing on its hinge, and saw a flash of the woman walk in. Just a bit of her cheek, her shoulder passing behind a shelf, headed for the same section she was in the day Brian first saw her. Looking for the book again, he was sure.

He almost didn’t get up. Almost let his anxiety decide it was best to leave the poor girl alone. But after a moment’s hesitation he scrambled to pack his things away, hurried with his bag across his shoulder, his hand cradling the book through the leather like it was his own child, and meandered as quietly as he could to the sciences.

Most of the libraries tables were in the center, but classic literature, and the combined science section each had a smaller couple of tables tucked away in the awkward parts of the library’s layout that made it impossible to add another set of shelves. After Brian had glanced down each and every labyrinthine combination of shelves hoping to spot her running her finger down the numbered spines of the books, he headed for that nook in the edge of the Sciences.

He rounded the corner and held his breath when he saw her, like any motion or noise might scare her off. She was sitting with her back to him, a notebook out in front of her and a pencil tapping against it, her notebook full of her writing, and two books open on her right. Like she’d been there for hours not minutes. He ran his fingers over the contour of the book in his bag one more time before stepping out from behind the shelf. Though she couldn’t see it, for him it solidified that he wouldn’t back out of this horrible, horrible, humiliating, embarrassing, awful thing he was doing. Even if it felt like his throat closed a little bit more with each step. By the time he was at her side it was definitely fully closed.

“E—excuse me,” he stammered.

She flinched at the sound of his voice, obviously too enthralled with whatever she was studying to have noticed his silent walk up to her table. She just looked up at him expectantly, confused and aloof, her enormous blue eyes staring deep into Brian. Though he’d only caught glimpses of her before, he figured when he imagined her face he was idealising her to an extent. But found that to be untrue as he looked at her, totally unobstructed by bookshelves or distance. Her eyes were just as bright and brilliant and soft as he remembered. Her nose just as delicate. Her mouth much the same, small and feminine with brilliantly pink lips to match her youthfully pink cheeks that came either from the cold outside or just from how she existed in God’s obvious favour.

He wondered what she must be thinking of him. And felt himself blush knowing full well she wasn’t thinking anything kind about his own looks while hers were nearly blinding him. Her soft, expectant but patient gaze was as intense as the sun. So he looked down, focused on the buckle of his bag before continuing.

“Sorry to bother you but er,” he fiddled still with the bag, his hands shaking as he tried and failed to undo the buckle, “the other day I was behind you in the line—I heard you needed the biology textbook that’s been scarce,” he hated how uncontrollable the strange breathiness in his voice was, “I er, I happen to have a copy of it and er—I don’t need it or anything so you can have it if you’d like,” he pulled the book from his bag, trying not to go any redder, knowing she was still staring, and added, “and if you’re free for er,” he slid the book next to her on the table. It’d be less embarrassing if he just stopped there…but in for a penny, “if you wanted to have coffee later—with me, that is, then…” his words trailed off as he realised he’d run out of coherent thought.

He met her gaze again only after he’d stopped his rambling which had sounded so much better when he’d practiced in the shower. He expected her expression to read as judgmental or pre-scoff, but she just looked confused. Brian could only hope that didn’t mean he’d have to repeat himself. Had he spoken too fast? Maybe none of what he’d said had been loud enough to be understood.

“If you don’t need it,” Brian began, awkwardly putting one hand on the book, ready to scoop it back into his bag.

“Sorry.” Her voice was a little deeper than he’d expected. Not too much deeper but definitely more raspy. She put a hand on the book, nearly grazing Brian’s. She was rather tall for a woman but even for her height her hands seemed a little big. Nothing bad about either one, but they both drew his attention to how suspiciously flat her chest was in her tight sweater, and how suspiciously masculine her body language was. “So you—you don’t need your copy?”

Brian looked back at her, cocking his head as well, trying to be polite as he found the reasoning behind the features of hers that stood out to him. “Er—no I—I’m not in the class I just had a copy…”

“Oh,” she sat back in her chair, stopped hunching over her notes protectively like Brian was some sort of threat, “sorry—do I know you?”

“No, you don’t,” he said with a blush. In his head this meeting went so smooth and easy, in practice it was like pulling teeth, “I’m—I’m Brian.”

“Nice to meet you Byron.” Brian would correct that later on. Either by telling her his real name or by changing his legal name to Byron. She held out her hand for Brian to shake, he tried not to go too red when he took it. “I’m Roger.”

“Sorry, I don’t think I heard that right,” he said.

“Roger. Like ‘roger that’ or ‘jolly roger’ or er…dunno, something else with ‘roger’ in it.”

Oh.

Okay.

He grit his teeth and hoped the newfound tension in his entire body didn’t translate to his hand. Judging by the aloof, bored look on Roger’s face, if he’d noticed Brian’s hand tensing he didn’t think much about it. He let go of Brian’s hand and patted the book at his side.

“Are you loaning this to me for the day or—do you just not need your copy anymore?” Roger said.

“Oh you can have it,” Brian said with a wave of his hand. Roger stared up at him with wide eyes and a frozen expression that told Brian that was probably a bit too generous. “I mean you can loan it for the semester, I don’t need it.”

“You’re serious?” Roger said, one corner of his mouth turning up in a smile as his hand wrapped around the spine of the book.

“Sure,” Brian gripped the strap of his bag a little tighter. “It’s an old one, I don’t need it.”

“It’s not old,” Roger said, “it came out three years ago.”

“Did it?” Brian rocked forward like he might be able to read the publishing date through the front cover that Roger’s hand was splayed against. “I wouldn’t really know I didn’t read it.”

“You didn’t?” Roger squinted. “What professor did you have?”

“Er...” Brian did consider lying but he didn’t have it in him the way some people did. Even a convincing lie sounded incredibly false on his tongue. Not to mention, he had no clue who any biology professors were, much less which ones were more lax than others. “No it’s er,” he laughed, scratched the back of his neck, and hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt, “I er, I never—I’m a physics major.”

Roger laughed. “Fuck are you doing with this then?”

“I inherited it,” he said without thinking.

“You inherited a brand new textbook?” Roger opened it up to the center, they both heard the distinctive cracking of glue found only in brand new books. “A brand new, unopened book?”

“Yes.” He knew he wouldn’t be able to continue a lie like this much longer and hoped the conviction in his voice would sell this.

“Hm,” Roger looked at Brian for a moment more, then off into space for a beat or two of silence. “So you said you want coffee? With me?”

Brian stared back, silent for a few seconds too long as he tried to reconcile Roger’s name, his…his everything, with the assumption he’d had running through his head for nearly two weeks. “Oh yeah, that,” he began awkwardly, unsure of how to make his original offer sound less like a come-on, “thought a drink would be…fun—it doesn’t—doesn’t have to be coffee, we can just get a pint.” A pint was more masculine right? What did he care though, the woman he’d been looking for was gone, or never existed really, he had no one left to impress.

“A pint?” Roger laughed. “It’s barely noon.”

“Oh you want to go—to go now?” It wasn’t a date anymore, but deep down he’d still expected the usual treatment he got from most women who gave him a polite yes, told them they’d check their calendars, then never called.

“Sure I do,” Roger closed the other two books he’d had opened. “I’ve been in here since fucking seven in the morning trying to piece together enough information to make it through the next lecture. But now,” he triumphantly shook the textbook Brian gave him before shoving it in his bag, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

So he’d been there the whole time. Brian spent five hours sitting, editing lyrics about a woman he was endlessly searching for who not only was in the room with him the entire time but was also a man named Roger.

“I’m buying,” Roger said, “can’t pay you back for the book, but I can definitely afford two cups of coffee. It’s the least I can do in exchange for you saving my arse—genuinely I had no idea how I’d pass at this rate.”

Brian grinned, though it was more of a wince. He knew there was a good chance Roger hadn’t had the book because he went out and bought it. But of course, that could be kept to himself along with the reason he bought the book in the first place.

Roger led them out, comfortable with Brian at his side despite how tense and unsure Brian was every time Roger stepped a bit too close to him. He mentioned the cafe on the opposite side of the block, one that he went to fairly frequently while he was holed up in the library. Brian admitted he’d never noticed it before and Roger laughed like that was the strangest thing to come out of Brian’s mouth. Not the strange offering of the textbook and invitation out on a date that quickly had to become not a date, but not knowing the cafe. _That_ was the weird part.

“So you do physics?” Roger said as they took the steps out of the library. “You want to be a physicist?”

“Er—astrophysicist is the—the end goal so to speak.”

“Oh—hey I heard America’s about to go to the moon.” Roger elbowed him. “If you hurry up, you can meet them there,” he added with a smirk.

Brian grinned back, more nervous and more shy than Roger. He had a feeling though, that everyone was more nervous and more shy than Roger. Brian couldn’t see himself being so friendly and kind to a stranger who asked him for a coffee in exchange for a book they’d essentially stolen but Roger behaved like this happened all the time, like it was part of his routine almost. Maybe it was. He was definitely beautiful enough for Brian to be sure he wasn’t the first person this week to ask him out. First bloke probably. Although, even that was a stretch.

“And—er—you biology? You want to be a biology?” Brian said in a panic after he realised how long he’d been silent. Roger rounded the corner, tugging Brian’s sleeve when he tried to continue on straight.

“A biologist you mean?” he offered.

“Yeah that—or a doctor, I think doctor’s the more common one right?” He was drowning in his own inability to carry a conversation with someone so blindingly beautiful. Normally that inability only made itself known when the someone in question was a woman, but Roger confused all that and left him with sweaty palms.

“Suppose it is,” Roger shrugged. “Not for me though. That’s so much schooling and tireless hours of study and practice and then you go to work and if you’re a bit tired that day, you misread a label, you misread a chart, someone dies. Not exactly my definition of a happy life.”

“When you put it like that I’m not sure why anyone gets their MD,” said Brian. Roger made some noise of agreement and left space for Brian to add, “so what is it you’re gonna be then?”

Brian glanced over in the short silence Roger left, saw his lips pressed tightly together, watched his expression drop.

“Dentist,” he said. “Good money. Don’t know any dentist who killed a patient so…”

“Well don’t sound _too_ excited,” teased Brian.

“I am a bit,” Roger assured, though he didn’t sound confident. “It’s a job I can do well and make money doing. It’s not a passion like going to the moon is for you, that’s all.”

“I—I wouldn’t be going to the moon,” Brian said. “I’d more be plotting how they get to and from it.”

Roger rolled his eyes. “You say that like that’s peanuts.”

“I don’t mean to,” Brian felt the tension in his shoulders drop just a bit, “I’d much rather be plotting things like that than burning up on reentry.”

“How’s about this,” Roger nudged him, “I’ll get my pilots license and you send me to space.”

“Is that all you need? A pilot’s license?”

“I’ll bet it is,” Roger held an arm out, let Brian walk right into it as a way of stopping him before they crossed the busy street. “A jet, a rocket ship, a car, I bet it’s all the same.”

Roger bolted across the street, Brian trailed awkwardly behind after hesitating to leave the pavement when Roger had. He stood on the opposite side, grinning while Brian apologised to the car that almost hit him, then led both of them into the warmth of the cafe. Roger mentioned something about the food being good, though Brian was so far from hungry the very thought of food churned his stomach that was still full of butterflies. He sat them in a back corner, ‘his’ table he called it, though it looked like the rest. Brian sat across from him and hoped Roger didn’t notice the way he nearly kicked the chair out from under himself when he sat down. Roger probably wasn’t looking that closely anyway.

“So when you’re not going to the moon, what do you do?” Roger poured what Brian would describe as a heap of sugar into his coffee.

“Er,” Brian watched mesmerised as Roger turned his coffee into a dessert, “you mean like—like hobbies?”

“Is this your first time talking to someone?” Roger teased. “Yes I mean your hobbies.”

“Right I—sorry—I er—I play guitar.”

“Well or ‘on the side’?” Roger poured just a bit of cream into his coffee and stirred it like he was trying to whip it.

“Pretty well,” Brian shrugged.

“Look at you,” Roger said with a wink. “I play guitar ‘on the side’,” he spoke like he was revealing some dark secret.

“I’m sure you’re great,” Brian said, not really thinking, just desperate to see Roger grin again.

“I can do good rhythm by now but, my main instrument is drums,” Roger said, “suppose that’s why the _rhythm_ guitar works so well for me.”

“Actually, my friend and I’re looking for drummers right now to get a band together.” Why had he said that. What the hell was he doing. Did he want to spend every weekend with his band blushing at the sight of the fucking drummer. Why the fuck had he—

“Are you really?” Roger said.

“Er, yes, we’re meeting with some drummers tomorrow, and throughout the week,” Brian stirred his coffee, though he’d added nothing to it.

“What’s the group called?”

“Smile?” Brian said in that way he always said it. Like he was offering it up to someone and if they didn’t recognise the name he’d forget the whole thing altogether. “ _Don’t forget to_ , Smile.”

“Wait—wait,” Roger reached down for his bag, rummaged through it like a dog digging up a flowerbed, and resurfaced with a card. A tear away card Brian had put at the bottom of their advert for a drummer. “I’m supposed to audition for Smile tomorrow.”

“Oh fuck,” Brian said. Roger cocked his head. “I—mean—what are the odds—that’s...weird.”

“Isn’t it?” Roger laughed. “Funny though how you have a Brian and a Byron in the group.”

“We er,” Brian cleared his throat, “we don’t actually.”

“Oh was he…let go,” Roger said under his breath.

“No—er—there’s no Byron, _I’m_ Brian.”

Roger stared for a moment. Frozen just for a second while Brian wondered if maybe he was supposed to apologise for this. Roger reached across the table, swatted his arm. “Why’d you let me call you Byron?” he said with fake indignation.

“I don’t know,” Brian answered mostly honestly.

“And you didn’t recognise me?” Roger asked.

“From what?”

“Well—a lot of people recognise my voice, I thought you might from our phone call yesterday.”

“You called me?”

“To schedule my audition?” Roger said like Brian should’ve known that. “Don’t you remember?”

“Er,” Brian reached across the back of his neck anxiously, his mind swimming with the idea that while he’d been tirelessly searching for ‘her’, ‘she’d been on the fucking phone with him, “I was a little preoccupied, sorry.”

“No harm no foul,” he shrugged. “But—it’s actually quite lucky we met today.” Brian couldn’t agree more. The idea of being blindsided by Roger striding in to an audition was harrowing enough that despite the fact that it could no longer happen to him, his stomach churned like it might. “I didn’t want to mention this on the phone and have you hang up on me but my drumkit is back in Truro.”

“Huh?” Brian said, still stressing himself over what might’ve happened to him if he saw Roger by surprise at the audition.

“Truro—Cornwall, you know it,” Roger waved his hand dismissively. “It’s back home, so I don’t have a kit to audition on _per say_ , but I’ve got bongos.”

“Oh,” Brian relaxed a bit. Suddenly it didn’t feel like he had anything to worry about in terms of Roger being Tim’s top pick for their new drummer.

“I know how it sounds—but I am a real drummer, and I’m quite good—I won a bunch of rhythm competitions back home, call my mum and she’ll tell you,” Roger added with a grin. “I’ll prove it to you tomorrow, and now that we’re such good friends you’re not allowed to cancel.”

“Okay,” Brian laughed but his voice shook, a little caught off guard by being called his friend. It was an obvious joke but still had his cheeks turning just a bit red. Roger would never look close enough, thoughtfully enough to notice that though.

They stayed a bit longer, Roger regaled him with stories of his time drumming Truro, something he openly admitted was a ploy to convince Brian to hire him the next day. But he was so charismatic Brian didn’t care that he was being worked over. He quite enjoyed staring at Roger and listening to his stories that were told with intense theatrics. His eyes lit up, his smile was permanent while he spoke. He had a wild look about him. It wasn’t what Brian expected. When he’d first seen him through the bookcases, he looked serene and studious, charming but not loud. Given how poorly he’d misjudged Roger’s gender, it made sense he misjudged his demeanor. Though oddly, it wasn’t any less charming.

Roger only left when he realised he’d run late for a class and by that point he was shouting ‘goodbye, see you tomorrow’ as he sprinted out of the cafe. A goodbye that was jolting enough and strange enough that Brian wasn’t sure any of it had actually happened and wouldn’t have been surprised to wake from a rather odd dream right in that moment.

~~~

“He said he’s been drumming since he was fourteen or something,” Brian said as Tim circled Roger’s block, trying to find a spot to park.

“But bongos?” Tim groaned. He’d wanted to cancel. Brian had ‘by accident’ left out the tidbit of him and Roger’s meeting and their conversation in the cafe afterwards. Instead he led Tim to believe Roger had called him back to tell him all of that about his drumming, not technically a lie, much easier to keep up with. “I’m sure he loves drumming but fucking bongos?”

“His mum wouldn’t let him take the kit to school, she said it’d interfere with his studies so—” Brian began.

“His mum?” Tim scoffed. “Wow, how hardcore, his fucking mummy’s grounded him from his drum kit.”

“I think we’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Brian said. He still wasn’t sure how he’d feel about Roger joining their band and was definitely leaning in the direction of hoping to God he couldn’t actually play the drums. But he did want to see Roger again the second he’d left the cafe. He was magnetic in a way Brian hadn’t seen in anyone before, and he didn’t want the cafe, or the audition, to be the last time he saw him.

“You know I’m not a percussionist,” Tim found a spot and jerked the car into it, “but I don’t know if _anyone_ can tell a good bongo player from a bad one.” He shut the car off. “It’s like we asked for a fucking marimba aficionado and he’s auditioning with a triangle.”

Brian stood, shut the car door behind him. “He seemed confident that the bongos would win us over.”

“Well,” Tim stretched his back out before locking his car door, “if nothing else it’ll be a funny story. Some idiot auditioning for a rock band with bongos.”

“Keep an open mind, would you?”

Tim agreed but kept his arms crossed when Brian knocked on the door. Tim was a gentle sort of soul, more folksy than he was rock and roll. But he wasn’t one for wasted time or energy, which he felt very sure this entire audition would turn out to be. Brian couldn’t exactly reassure him that it wasn’t. He’d never heard Roger play, he’d just been bowled over entirely by his stories and his beauty.

The door opened like a whip. No initial peek with the chain lock chained. Straight to a wide open door with Roger in the doorway with a standoffish expression on his face.

“Oh it’s you two,” Roger said. He stepped to the side. “Come in, come in, it’s fucking cold outside.”

Tim introduced himself, warming up almost instantly to Roger’s wide grin and friendly disposition. When Roger made some comment about how he already knew Brian, he let Tim think that meant their short introduction on the phone and quickly moved on to asking about the bongos.

Roger told them to sit while he dug the bongos out of his closet. He screamed his words from the back of his room, not wanting to even pause the conversation while he searched. He promised them that, despite how it looked, he was a skilled drummer and promise them no matter how ‘extraordinary’ he sounded on the bongos, he’d sound even better on a full kit. Before Roger returned with bongos in hand, Tim gave Brian a few ‘I think he might be a nutter’ type of looks. Brian muttered the name of the drumming award he’d told Tim about and hoped that enough to keep his judgement at bay at least until Roger started.

He returned, sat with the bongos in his lap. With no fanfare or preamble, he started in. Tapping out a beat like it was second nature for him to do so, and it seemed like it was. Seemed like he was hardly thinking about what he was doing. He complicated the beat, double and tripled up his strokes. His hands moved with the practiced ease of an expert. His fingertips knew just where to hit, exactly how hard, for the precise tone and ring he was searching for. His fingers would flatten for a fatter sound, he’d slam the heel of his hand to punctuate, and do it with no thought, with no worry he might slip up, he knew he wouldn’t. Brian had been so enthralled with his expertise, he hardly noticed he’d been playing an alternate beat in time with the music spinning on his turntable. And when the song ended, so did his drumming.

“So?” Roger said, triumphantly running the tips of his fingers along the skin of the bongos.

“You were right,” Tim said to Brian.

“Talked me up did you?” Roger said with a wink.

“He told me you’d won awards, I thought it was all shit since you don’t even have a kit but,” Tim sighed deep, “you can fuckin’ play.”

“I know I can,” Roger laughed. “Promise, I’m even better on a full kit.”

“Well,” Tim sank into the raggedy couch he and Brian were squeezed together on, “after that, I’m convinced.”

“Convinced how?” Roger sat up a bit.

“Convinced you should join—er,” he turned to Brian, “unless you’d rather we talk it over or something.”

“Me?” Brian said, almost forgetting he had a say in this, forgetting he _had_ to have an opinion on this. “I—I don’t need to think it over, I’m in too.”

“Great!” Roger said with a loud clap of his hands.

“It is,” Tim said with a quiet laugh. “Honestly, I was worried we wouldn’t find someone, the few we’ve heard have been a little too…behind the times.”

“That’s why we put Ginger Baker on the fucking advert but,” Brian sighed.

“Well aren’t you all lucky you found me,” Roger said with a ten thousand watt smile that Brian couldn’t look directly at. “I supposed the real luck is Brian finding me yesterday, I was worried the whole bongos situation would make you cancel.”

“What?” Tim said with a furrowed brow. “Found you?”

“Yeah, didn’t he mention,” Roger stood, “anyone in for a beer—I’ve got whiskey too,” he offered.

“I’ll have a beer,” Tim said then quickly, “he didn’t mention though—what’re you—found you?”

“Yesterday,” Roger said as he passed them to get to the tiny kitchenette with more dishes in the sink than food in the shelves. “I was studying all this shit without a real textbook and he came up and offered me the one he had. We got to talking and I think my blabbering about all the competitions I’d entered sort of warmed him up to the idea.”

Brian held his breath, well aware of how red his cheeks must’ve been by then. He waited for a beat, listening for the sound of Roger popping the tops off the beer bottles, then turned to Tim.

Tim sat, still sunken in the couch, staring at Brian with a grin as wide as his face would allow. “You’re right, Brian, she’s gorgeous,” he whispered.

“Don’t fucking say anything,” Brian whispered back, already sweating, “we need him to drum.”

“Why don’t you play him the song you wrote about him,” Tim teased.

“It’s _not funny,”_ Brian hissed.

“It’s funny,” Tim assured him in a quiet voice.

“Here you are,” Roger said, returning with the bottles and handing them off. “So—when’s the first gig?”

“Your guess is as good as ours,” Tim said with a swig of his beer.

“Well if you’re ever up to drive down to Truro, I can get us some shows,” Roger offered. “I can get my kit while we’re down there,” he added with a snigger.

They lingered at his flat for longer than either of them planned on. Roger had a way about him that Brian was relieved to find wasn’t all in his head. That magnetism, that desire to stay and listen to every word he had to say, wasn’t just Brian, Tim was hanging on his every word too. More enthralled with each story he told.

When Tim finally realised the time it was clear he’d lost track of it in Roger’s presence. He hopped up, cutting the evening off just before they overstayed their welcome, and headed for the door.

“Let me know when we’re practicing next, I think the music hall’s got a kit I can sign in for or something like that,” Roger said as he leant against the edge of the front door.

Brian crossed his jacket tighter across his body as the outside winds whipped at him.

“Plan for this wednesday,” Tim said.

“Wednesday it is,” Roger said with a grin. Tim started off, headed towards the stairwell down to the ground floor. Brian awkwardly grinned at Roger, wishing he had something more to say, just between the two of them, but nothing came to mind. He took a step in Tim’s direction, muttering a goodbye, when Roger reached for his jacket sleeve. “Thanks again for the good word, Brian,” he said with those same alluring and welcoming eyes. So soft but so full of intensity that Brian didn’t have any chance of really tasting now that Roger was Roger and not some mystery woman.

Not that he wanted a taste anyway.

“Sure thing,” Brian said with a squeak.

“And thanks for the book,” Roger said. “I owe you one, cash in whenever you like.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Brian sounded less like himself and more like an old maid with the way his voice warbled and shook. Roger smirked at his strange tone, Brian just shook his head and hurried to catch up to Tim, not interested in embarrassing himself any further.

Tim hurried to unlock and start the car. He knew if he lingered at all Brian would complain about the cold and there was nothing he hated more than Brian’s signature whine of ‘don’t you think it’s too cold’ whether that was at their flat or in the car. But Brian wouldn’t have minded a bit of lingering today, if only because he knew the moment he opened the door to the car and sat himself in the passenger’s seat, Tim would begin the onslaught of teasing.

And sure enough.

“So,” he said once Brian slammed his door closed, “your ‘type’ changed quite a bit.”

“He—I only saw bits of him—I told you that,” Brian groaned. “If you saw his features totally separate from each other, you’d think he was a girl too.”

Tim pulled the car out onto the road. “I’ll concede he’s _very_ feminine looking, but _come on_. You wrote him a ballad!”

“It’s not _for_ him, it’s about a woman who doesn’t exist it turns out,” Brian spat.

“Six of one,” Tim scoffed. “I mean did you not see the Adam’s apple?”

“I never got that close,” Brian groaned. “Once I did, I realised pretty quickly so—”

“Not right away?” Tim laughed. “Just pretty quick?”

“Well—I was expecting a woman, I thought she just had a more boyish body—I don’t know, I was flustered,” Brian sighed and put his head back against the headrest.

“You’re not gonna spend every practice time blushing the way you did today are you?”

“God,” Brian rubbed his temple, “was it that noticeable?”

“To me at least,” Tim seemed to revel in his humiliation. “We’ll have to put makeup on you to cover that, can’t have you rosy cheeked on stage like a school girl.”

“I won’t be,” Brian bit. “It’s just been a confusing couple of days, it’s not like I’m actually interested.”

“What?” Tim’s giggling slowed.

“What?” Brian repeated.

“I meant…I thought you were blushing because you were embarrassed about the whole thing not because you…” he didn’t finish the thought, didn’t dare.

“Oh…of course—yes—that’s what I meant,” he added uselessly. Tim shifted in his seat, gripped the wheel a bit tighter. Brian didn’t have the energy or the confidence to argue the point any further. His thoughts were all mixed up, all his fantasies of the mystery woman were invaded but not erased by the presence of Roger. But that didn’t have to mean anything. He knew that. He didn’t know it well enough to try and convince Tim though. So he stayed quiet and turned the radio up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... It has Been a While now :) Sorry for the wait, but it really couldn't be helped with the holidays and once I got back to writing this one it was a quick process so the wait won't ever be so long again (and the chapter after this is almost done so) <3 if you like this chapter pls comment <3!!!

Brian leant against the solid wood of the bar and kept his eye on the table he’d just left. It fit four and they brought four. Tim, Brian, Roger, and Freddie.

Tim and Brian had invited him out with them a few times six odd months before, after those few times Freddie didn’t need an official invitation anymore. Brian never expected he’d get on with Roger so well but there they were, chatting away like Brian and Tim’s absence for the bar had gone totally unnoticed. He didn’t want Roger. No, those feelings faded days after they’d met. But he wanted to be close to him. Roger was probably his favourite person, and he wished he could be Roger’s. He even dared think he might be but all those hopes flew out the window when he and Tim introduced Roger to Freddie.

The two of them could go on and on the way Brian and Roger could. But there was a little more life in Freddie, a little more flair for the dramatic that Roger seemed to be drawn to. Freddie being _his way_ hadn’t bothered him how he and Tim worried it might, instead it seemed to pull them closer. Brian could just barely remember the conversation Roger had with him, asking in hushed tones if he was way out of line in his assumption, could just barely remember that horrifyingly selfish twinge of hope in thinking maybe it would end their forest fire friendship. He never gave Roger a straight answer for Freddie’s sake, but once he knew, he knew. Nothing changed, nothing shifted aside from Roger offering to set Freddie up with one of his girlfriend’s mates.

Ugh.

He’d almost gone the whole night without reminding himself of Jo. Half of his desire to keep her out of his mind was self preservation, saving himself from the awful feeling the mere mention of her injected into him. The other half was guilt for feeling that way at all. Jo had been nothing but kind to him, even when Brian was less than happy to see her. She was a good fan of theirs too and had a habit of tending to the drunk girls who were off in the loo crying towards the end of their set. She was present for their music but never tried to make any changes. By and large, there was nothing much for Brian to complain about. There weren’t many explanations for that pit of frustration he felt when he saw her, so he chose to ignore it and her altogether and just be grateful when it was Freddie filling out the fourth seat rather than her.

“God they’re like a house on fire,” Tim said, rolling his eyes as he slapped a few coins on the bar in exchange for a lager.

“I think the saying is they ‘get on’ like a house on fire, not ‘they’re a burning building’,” Brian corrected.

“Who cares.” Fair point. “I think Freddie’s gunnin’ for my job.”

“He can’t play bass, you know that,” Brian said, not particularly worried for Tim. Freddie was talented, but he wasn’t the raging bull he pretended to be when he performed. He’d never force someone out of the job. Tim knew that too.

“I dunno,” Tim shrugged, “he’s a much better singer than me.”

“He’s not much better.”

“Yet.” Tim sipped his lager. He wouldn’t say it but it was both of them that needed the break from Roger and Freddie when they went up to the bar, not just Brian. “One lesson and I guarantee he’ll be the best in London.”

“So what?” Brian scoffed. “It’s not like we’re firing you.”

“I know,” Tim didn’t look at him, “but you never know.”

“I do know,” Brian’s tone turned a bit more forceful. “No matter how good he sings, I’m not kicking you out. This is our band.”

“I didn’t say you’d kick me out,” Tim laughed.

“What’re’you saying then? Gonna kick yourself out?”

Tim scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Just talking shite, c’mon,” he took a step away from the bar, and waited for Brian to pick up his drink before continuing on to the table Freddie and Roger were still at. Despite all of their exuberance, it was clear the energy had seeped out of them. Brian loved that part of the night. It was a short window but it was one Brian could meet the energy of. The one forty minute window he could hear himself speak over the din of Roger and Freddie’s back and forth. Though, judging by how Freddie’s eyelids drooped, he may have caught them on the backend.

“What was all the fuss about?” Tim said.

“Freddie was just suggesting better ways to crowd-please,” Roger said with a crooked grin as and his chin resting in his hand.

“Is that so?” Tim shot Brian a knowing look.

“That’s what sets groups apart you know,” Freddie said through a yawn. “You’ve got to treat the people who come to see you like royalty and it’s a guarantee they’ll come back.”

“What’re we meant to do? Suck them all off?” he huffed.

“If you like,” Freddie shrugged. “I was thinking more along the lines of snacks.”

“Snacks sound nice,” Brian said. Tim shot him another look, one a bit more opaque than the last.

“I’ve got enough pocket money from the stall, my grants for school cover everything else, may as well.” He presented the idea like a naughty child trying to arrange his own punishment.

“You don’t need my permission,” Tim said.

“I’m glad you’re on board,” Freddie said. Brian wondered why Tim didn’t correct him and point out that he hadn’t exactly said yes. But if Tim didn’t care enough to do it, Brian certainly didn’t. “Now, Tim, could I pester you once more for a ride home?”

He smirk and shook his head. “I would, but I walked.”

“I’m fine with being carried,” Freddie said with a wink.

“I can take you,” Brian said.

“That means you can take me too doesn’t it?” Roger grinned. As if Brian would ever say no.

Tim left them at the door, saying tired goodnights as he headed for home. Brian walked a step or two ahead of Freddie and Roger, leading them lazily to his car and trying not to think too hard about how they so easily lagged behind and separated from him.

Roger called shotgun, Freddie didn’t fight him. He laid down in the backseat and was practically asleep before the doors shut. It was nice like that. With the radio buzzing quietly he could almost imagine he was alone with Roger. Though, Roger wasn’t exactly chatty thanks to the long night of classes and practice that had worn him out. But still, even sharing just silence with Roger was something he longed for.

“I hate this song,” Roger said, a few stoplights away from the pub. Brian didn’t know the group or even the title of the song, all he knew was he’d heard it every day in every shop for weeks now and the sound of it had him rolling his eyes. “No talent, all just pop garbage.”

“No argument here.”

“We really ought to record an album,” Roger said. “With an album out, we can be the pop garbage on the radio,” he added with a laugh.

“An album?” Brian kept his eyes on him too long, nearly forgot to ease his brakes on. But Roger didn’t seem to notice. “Where’d that come from?”

“Freddie,” Roger cracked his knuckles with a certain nervous energy that Brian couldn’t place. “Y’know, I get this feeling you and Tim aren’t thrilled with me and Freddie always offering up our two cents about the band.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Come off it,” Roger sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Brian considered doubling down but he knew what he was like. If Roger and Freddie started off on one of their little back and forths with idea after idea bouncing around, Brian got annoyed. So did Tim. It got under Tim’s skin when people uninvolved in the creation of the music gave notes on it’s delivery. He gave Freddie leeway because of their longstanding friendship, but it was no real secret he was never excited to hear one of their ideas. Brian on the other hand, was annoyed that these brilliant suggestions only ever struck when he wasn’t around, when the two of them could be rid of him and free to think. Each idea they brought to him and Tim made him feel more and more like the two of them were the stars and he was just their babysitter who wasn’t worth speaking to unless they needed another drink, a place to sleep. A ride home.

Though he hoped that the pathetic reasoning behind his constant irritation with their friendship wasn’t obvious, he knew his sour mood was.

“I’m sure the ideas are good,” Brian said, unsure what to tell him. Anything even near the truth sounded so cloying and overbearing on his part. ‘I hate when you and Freddie try to make the band better because I’m jealous that you like him more’ wasn’t exactly going to win Roger over.

“I know we can be a little much,” Roger said, “but I think it’s good for a band to have those personality types. If we don’t push us out of our comfort zone it’s not like you and Tim will.”

Brian winced at how Roger split them like that. Him and Freddie, Brian and Tim. Two separate, and apparently warring, entities.

“I suppose so,” he said through gritted teeth. “But you know how Tim is, he’s serious about his art. Having a bunch of changes to make for the band shoves a lot on his plate.”

“Then what’s he doing this for?” Roger huffed. Brian turned, tried to read his expression for a clearer picture on what he meant but came up empty.

“What’re you saying?”

“I don’t know,” Roger returned to staring out the windshield like his life depended on it. “I’m serious about this band, y’know.”

“I am too.”

“I know _we_ are,” Roger said. Brian knew he shouldn’t feel as relieved as he did at the way Roger called them ‘we’. “But with Tim it’s such a fight to make improvements. I mean—doesn’t he realise if we don’t improve we’ll stay right where we are. Doing gigs and ‘tours’ through pubs within driving distance until we die?”

“I don’t think he wants to tour pubs until he dies,” Brian joked, hoping to ease the tension in Roger.

“I don’t think he does either,” Roger said flatly. “I don’t think he wants to tour pubs for very much longer at all.”

“Hold on,” Brian looked at him with a nervous grin, “Tim loves music—he loves this band—he’s been with us building it from the ground up—”

“And he’ll probably always love music and playing music and creating it. But he also loves art and creating art.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“You can’t succeed like that,” Roger said. “I don’t want anything else. I don’t work towards anything else except music, I’ve given it all my energy. He can’t say the same.”

“Neither can I,” Brian snapped. “I’m still working on my thesis.”

“That’s different.” Roger swatted his words away with an irritated scowl on his face.

“Do you think I’m not dedicated to this band—”

“I know you are,” Roger snapped. He tense up for a moment then let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m not trying to say anything against you or against him,” he said with a tight jaw. “I just have this horrible feeling that Tim’s starting to feel like he’s run his course with us.”

“I think you’re just overthinking,” Brian turned down his street. “It’ll be a long while before we’re rid of him.”

Roger smirked and forced a laugh out. “I hope so. We’re getting real traction, I don’t want to lose it.”

“We won’t,” Brian said with no basis for his confidence.

“Y’know,” Roger tapped his window, wordlessly indicating Brian was about to miss his turn. Brian caught on just in time and jerked the car to the right. “I’d hate to see him go, but, there’s something,” he waved his hands wildly back and forth between them, “that works. I think we’d be alright.”

Brian tried not to grin too wide when he responded, “I think so too.” Deep down part of him was a little embarrassed to be so comforted by the little recognition Roger had given their music. Not them. Their music. But he’d take what he could get at this point. Maybe that was a little pathetic too.

He pulled up to Roger’s building and wracked his brain for some excuse to stay with him. But found none as he watched Roger right his jacket and pop his door open.

“When do you and Freddie move in?” he said. A thought that crossed his mind earlier in their ride but one that stretched out his time with Roger if used right then, right as Roger was set to hop out.

“Another week or so,” Roger said with a wide grin. “I won’t miss this place.” Brian would. It was much closer than the flatshare he and Freddie were moving too.

“Need help packing up or anything?” he offered.

“Thanks but Jo’s got it covered,” Roger said.

“Oh, right, I forgot you’ve got Jo,” Brian knew how his face must’ve fallen but he couldn’t hide it.

“What’s with the face?” Roger said, gesturing to Brian vaguely. “You got a problem with her?”

“No—no, no of course not, I love her,” he sounded fake even to his own ears. Roger eyed him, searching for some sincerity and evidently finding it in Brian’s weak grin.

“Ah, don’t worry,” Roger reached over to squeeze his shoulder, a grin wide across his face, “I’ll ask her to find a friend for you.”

“Ah-ha,” Brian stammered, “thanks” he added just as Roger shut the passenger door behind him. Brian watched him go. He waited one beat, two, three, and four. Then, and only then, once Roger was most of the way up the steps, he bashed two fists against his steering wheel and screamed like he was bleeding. Why was he so preoccupied, why was he so bothered, why did Roger’s meager scraps of attention matter so much to him? Why did his stomach have to turn at each mention of Roger’s girlfriend, why did his whole body flood with envy for anyone who dared mean something to Roger?

“What the fuck was that?”

Brian jumped at the sound of Freddie’s voice. Roger had him distracted enough that he forgot he wasn’t alone in the car and maybe shouting as loud as he could wasn’t polite. “Did I wake you?” he whispered like that might forgive how loudly he’d woken Freddie.

“I wasn’t asleep,” Freddie shifted up and rested his arms on the back of the front bench seat. “I was eavesdropping.”

“I forgot you were there—didn’t mean to shout.”

“Yes you did,” Freddie laughed. “It’s the ‘why’ I’m interested in.”

“It’s er,” he threw the car into first and peeled off the curb, if he was driving he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with Freddie on his shoulder. “It’s been a long day.”

“It has,” Freddie said, “doesn’t explain why you lied to Roger about liking Jo.”

“I didn’t lie,” Brian said, hoping to brush the accusation off as quickly as it’d come.

“Oh, fuck off, darling,” Freddie heaved himself forward, sliding face-first over the bench seat in the general direction of the passenger’s side. Brian leant out of the trajectory of his foot swinging over the side and swerved the car by mistake.

“Freddie!”

“Don’t mind me,” he said as he curled his legs up and worked to untangle himself in what little space he had. Brian rolled his eyes and gripped the wheel like his life depended on it. “As I was saying, you lied.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re lying, and you were lying.”

“Oh— _sure_ you do, Fred.” He scoffed. “I’ve got no issue with Jo, you’re just reading too far into things _as usual.”_

“Wow,” Freddie struggled to cross his legs in the tight space and, thankfully, gave up before he kicked the gearshift or something equally disastrous. “You’re lying to me now too.”

“I’m _not lying,”_ he spat. He was lying of course, through his teeth, and he wasn’t all that surprised that Freddie noticed. But normally Freddie knew when to drop something, especially between them. He knew Brian wasn’t one for chatting about touchy subjects past the basic polite back and forth. He’d never had to shake Freddie of his trail this hard. Though maybe that was because Freddie knew something more satisfying laid at the end of this goose chase.

“Do you fancy her or something?”

“No,” Brian sighed.

“Hm.”

“What ‘hm’? Is it so odd that I shouldn’t fancy her?”

“No, but it’s odd that you’ve got such a problem with her when you don’t fancy her and don’t fight with her.”

“So what?” Was that all he could say ‘so what’? Freddie was dangerously skirting around the conclusion he’d spent nearly a year trying not to draw and all he could do to push back was mumble a measly little ‘so what’? God, he deserved to be found out.

“Is it like Roger thinks it? You’re just jealous he has someone?”

“I er,” Brian sighed, “I don’t know really. It’s not like I want to be with her, and I’m not exactly dying for a girlfriend. I—I don’t know.”

“What’s not to know? They’re your feelings.”

“I know that,” he huffed. “But—I don’t know,” he shrugged and slammed the brakes on for the red light a bit too harsh. “I don’t know what it is that sets me off, I guess I’m just…” just what? How did that sentence end without it twisting up into something horrible?

“Just…?” Freddie leant forward like that might give them more privacy and more space to say what was on their minds. For a moment there it did feel quiet and small enough for Brian to admit it all. Every misplaced and unwelcome jittery pang of jealousy when anyone got near Roger and breached the unearned claim to him Brian deep down had. But not quiet enough, not private enough. He turned from Freddie’s gaze when the green glow of the streetlight caught his eye and he eased back on the gas. “Is it…are you jealous of _Jo?”_

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brian said, rolling his eyes while his heart pounded out of his chest. He didn’t. He knew he didn’t. If he genuinely felt something for Roger he’d know by now. He’d spent his whole life knowing who he wanted and that had never included men. He knew what crushes, infatuation, adoration felt like and this wasn’t it, he’d know it if it was. Though it was troubling how he never could quite pin down what it was he felt for Roger.

“What’s ridiculous?”

“I’m not like that,” Brian snapped.

“You don’t have to be.”

He scoffed and turned to eye Freddie. His expression remained unfazed no matter how flippant Brian sounded. “That’s the definition.”

“Usually,” Freddie shrugged. “But there’re exceptions to every rule.”

“Oh— _right,”_ he laughed, entirely humourless and dead.

Freddie went quiet. Crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the window dead ahead. Brian was fine to leave it there. He didn’t care if Freddie kept on believing his feelings, however intense, were anything more than platonic. All he wanted was to move on to a topic that didn’t make his heart feel like it might make a break out of his chest.

“I’ve been the exception before,” Freddie said quietly.

“What’s that mean?” Brian huffed. He thought he’d safely ended this awful conversation.

“It means,” Freddie said sharply, turning to Brian but keeping his arms crossed tight, “I’ve had someone who was only with girls before me, try it on. He hasn’t gone near another bloke but he went near me. Sometimes you get blips I suppose.”

Brian scoffed. “I’m sure he _told_ you he was only into women.”

“He wouldn’t lie.”

“Men lie.”

“Tim doesn’t.”

“Tim who?”

“Tim Staffel.”

Brian pumped the brakes and mercifully hit a red light. He jolted the car to a stop and looked Freddie’s direction. Freddie averted his eyes, trying to act flippant and calm but a certain nervous or guilty energy was clear on his face. _“Tim?”_

“It was one time—”

_“You’re not kidding?”_

“Oh stop it!” Freddie slapped Brian’s hand. His brows knitted together in worry.

“I—When the fuck was this?” Brian’s voice rose and fell a full octave as he spoke.

“A couple months ago, I don’t know,” Freddie shrugged, “the point is—”

“How did that happen—when did—I’ve known Tim for years and he never said a word—” Brian stammered.

“There was nothing to tell!” Freddie shouted. “It was one night! He took me home after one of your shows, I offered him a drink, and he offered me…the opportunity to suck him off.” Freddie sighed.

“So…so you just blew him?” Brian said. Why would that make it better?

“Christ—of course I didn’t actually fuck him, it’s _Tim.”_

“But you _did blow him,_ ” Brian paced his words slow and said them loud.

“It was just a laugh,” Freddie rolled his eyes. “He said I’d been catching his eye and figured he might as well see if that meant anything and it didn’t, it was just a funny night.” He turned to Brian. “But that’s my whole point—it’s not out of the realm of possibility for you to be in that place with Roger.”

“I…” Brian shook his head and hoped he wasn’t too red. The mental image of Freddie and Tim was starting to sear itself in his mind’s eye. “Maybe that’s what happened to you and Tim but Roger hasn’t been ‘catching my eye’, I don’t think of him that way.”

“It’s not a big deal—”

“Fred, if I did have feelings for him, I’d tell you by _now,”_ Brian said with a laugh. Odd how that wasn’t true. This was the perfect time to maybe touch on how intense and intimate everything he felt was. Freddie had all his cards on the table and all of Tim’s cards too. Maybe laying his own out would be enough to set it straight in his own mind that this wasn’t in the same realm as Tim and Freddie and that he had been worrying over nothing and getting too far in his head about it.

“Well…it _can_ be the case if you ever want to…let it out,” Freddie said.

“There’s nothing to let out—”

“Alright,” Freddie held his hands up in surrender. And didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive. That was fine with Brian.

~~~

Roger told stories in a way that made everyone feel like they were right there when they happened. His face lit up and his eyes danced around the room as he grinned and went on and on about some old secondary school story that had them all in stitches. It never took much for Roger to have Brian in stitches though. Earlier in the night a few more people had crowded around Brian’s apartment, after a show that they hadn’t exactly sold out. They spent the night out getting consoled by their friends until they all wandered to Brian’s to get properly faced. But now it was down to the four of them.

When Roger laughed at his own story, he fell against Freddie sitting at his side on Brian’s couch. Brian sighed away the slight twinge of longing for that touch.

“You look tired,” Roger said, noting how Brian hadn’t burst out laughing at his story the way the others had. Brian perked up in an instant, always did when Roger spoke to him.

“I’m not,” Brian said with a shy laugh.

“He’s lying,” Tim said.

“I’m not,” Brian repeated.

“You know the way you tell it,” Freddie said with his shoulder pressed to Roger’s, “Truro was your own personal playground and the worst thing to happen was your hair getting made fun of.”

“Not my fault I don’t have many sad stories,” Roger shrugged.

“Not your fault,” Freddie huffed, “not fair, not your fault.”

“What—are you trying to get a sob story out of him?” Tim said with a scoff.

Freddie rolled his eyes. “Of course not,” he pinched Roger’s cheek, “it’s just funny how endless his supply of corkers is. All except that van story I suppose.”

“Van story?” Brian sat up. He knew there was a lot of Roger he didn’t know, but he didn’t like knowing that Freddie did.

“The wreck?” Freddie said, like Brian ought to know.

“Don’t think I’ve heard that one either,” Tim said, though it didn’t sound like he was interested in hearing it.

“Have you not?” Roger cocked his head. “It wasn’t too bad,” his cheeks were red with the excess of whiskey. “I was driving one of my first bands through this thick fog, it was just us three, my mate and his girlfriend, and— _bam!”_ he clapped his hands to emphasise the impact, “hit the rear of some other van, I was thrown clear.” He ended the story with a giggle. “Human cannonball,” he added.

Tim laughed with him, “holy shit, did you break anything?”

“No,” Roger shook his head proudly, though his smug grin didn’t reach his eyes, “I’m untouchable.”

“See what I mean?” Freddie groaned. “World’s on a silver platter for you, even when you’re crashin’ cars.”

“I don’t mind it,” Tim said, “it’s nice to have a lucky son of a bitch in our band. I’d rather that than some poor sod who drags misfortune behind him.”

“Don’t stroke his ego, it’s the size of London already,” Freddie groaned.

When had Roger found the time to tell Freddie that story. Why hadn’t he found that same time with Brian. He knew Roger longer, wasn’t there some sort of seniority to his past and the secrets within it or could anyone more charismatic than Brian just dive right in and cut him in line.

“You’re sure you’re not tired?” Tim said, eyeing Brian like he might fall asleep right then.

“I’m—” he snapped back into it, “I’m fine, really.”

“Well _I’m_ tired and was using you as an excuse,” Tim said, standing up and stretching his back.

Freddie knocked back the last of his drink. “C’mon then, sailor.”

“Do I really have to drive you?” Tim groaned rather petulantly.

“How else will I get back—I’ve got no sense of direction—I’ll get lost and die on the street looking for food and shelter—is that really what you want?” Freddie said as he snapped his jacket across his shoulders. His motion a little sloppy from all the vodka he stole off Brian.

“Yes, it is,” Tim said, taking a step around the coffee table. “See you all bright and early for practice tomorrow.”

“Bright and early?” Brian huffed.

“Noon,” Tim replied with a wink.

“Bring your backup singer,” Roger giggled as the two of them headed out the door and let it slam behind them. “They’re funny,” he added with a lingering smile.

“Yeah,” Brian said uselessly, his mind still focused on the envy he felt for Freddie. Maybe if he could just be a bit louder, a bit more outgoing like him, Roger would stick to him the way he did Freddie. But nothing could’ve been further from his nature. He was outgoing on a grand scale. He could step on stage without a second thought, he could perform to crowds as big as his own imagination without cracking a sweat, but on a personal level, without the anonymous veneer of a performance, he was more of a shrinking violet than he’d ever care to admit.

“I joke about it,” Roger said, sinking back into his spot on the couch. There was room now but, Brian didn’t dare get out of his chair to sit at his side. “But honestly, Freddie would make a good singer, a great one.”

“You told him he sounded like a goat last week,” Brian snickered.

“He does,” Roger rolled his eyes. “He needs training but he’s got the voice in there somewhere. No offense to Tim,” he added quickly.

“It’s not a slight against him to say Freddie could sing,” Brian said, carefully treading over the cracking ice he was on. Roger had been on it for almost a month now, about how Freddie might not be so batty with his insisting that he join up with them. It felt petty to disagree with Roger _solely_ because he didn’t want Freddie hogging that time Brian had with Roger backstage and after gigs, during practices, hell even _on stage._ Those were times for just the two of them and he would really rather not have Freddie’s enormous personality invade that space. So he clung to the fact that Freddie’s voice was, as of yet, untrained.

“Well this will be,” Roger said, looking over his shoulder for effect rather than need. “I think Tim might step back and be the bassist, let Freddie run the crowd and belt out the songs.”

“You think?” He hoped the distaste on his face wasn’t _too_ obvious, though, judging by the tired sigh coming from Roger, it was.

“Don’t look at me like I’m a mutineer,” he huffed. “Tim’s got a good voice, he sounds good, but Freddie’s voice could be a real powerhouse, I mean you’ve heard him yell—you think Tim could ever shout at someone that melodically?”

“I suppose not,” Brian said, desperate to claw the sour expression off his own face before Roger soured with him.

“I don’t mean anything by it,” Roger said with two hands up in surrender. “What I’m really saying is, Freddie’s going somewhere—as much as we tease him for it, I think he will end up being _someone_. So it’d be stupid not to make his voice part of our sound.”

“Well,” Brian said through clenched teeth, “maybe once he gets a lesson or two we can poach him off his band.” It wasn’t often they got time alone. Not just without Freddie but without anyone else. Time for just the two of them to bash about. And to waste that time was one thing, but to waste it chatting about how Freddie ought to be invited to all other instances of their time alone was a punch to the gut.

“If it’s such a bad idea, don’t tell Tim,” Roger said quickly, “I don’t want to get fired over a suggestion.”

“Oh—no, it’s not a bad idea.” That was the truth, it wasn’t. Brian just wished it were.

“I think we’ll all be thanking my genius about this one for years to come,” Roger said. _“If_ the smug bastard gets lessons.”

“Big if,” Brian said with a fake laugh. His thumb ran down the room temperature glass he’d poured a lager into a bit ago.

Roger huffed a tired, drunk smile and rubbed his eye. “Can I ask you an enormous favour?”

“Depends what it is.” It didn’t. Roger could’ve asked for the world in a basket and Brian would’ve said yes.

“Can I sleep here,” Roger said with another quiet laugh. “I don’t want to try and walk to the trains like this.”

“You don’t want me to call a cab?”

“I can if you like,” Roger said, stretching up and out.

“No,” Brian sighed, doing his best to sound put-out rather than a little happy at the idea of tending to Roger for a night. Even if that tending consisted only of giving him a blanket and something to sleep in. “No, I guess you better stay. It’s late for a cab.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor at the foot of your bed like a dog,” Roger said with a dutiful hand over his heart.

“Not the couch? You’d rather sleep on the floor?”

“Couches are for sitting, I will be sleeping,” Roger said. For such a rock and roller he had his _ways_ that he liked things. And those ways were very clean, practically sterile. On a pub tour over a few weeks Brian discovered he showered twice a day at least. He couldn’t feel too surprised to hear him say he’d rather not sleep on the couch he helped Brian steal off a curb.

“You’re fine with the floor?” Brian wanted to offer the bed but how would that look? Offering to sleep on the floor in his place hardly screamed brotherly love as much as it did unexplained devotion.

“I’ll be fine on the floor,” Roger said, “of course it’ll hurt my back which is crucial to,” he hiccuped, “to our band and our careers and livelihoods but other than that I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor in my own flat,” Brian laughed but he knew if Roger asked him one more time he’d curl up on the cold wood of his bedroom and lay awake wondering why he was so willing to.

“You’re bed’s big enough,” Roger stood and stretched again, swayed as he did, his whiskey had wreaked havoc on his ability to stay upright.

“Oh,” Brian watched Roger stumble towards his room, “you sure?”

Roger turned back to him and scoffed. But said nothing, just continued on like it was his own room. Brian stared at the space in the hall Roger had been for a moment. He was too south of tipsy to try and decipher all the social mores of what Roger was offering. But he knew it had to be fine. Roger didn’t offer things that weren’t entirely above board. But…still.

He wandered into his room and found Roger, half-out of his trousers, worming his way into Brian’s bed like a slug. Nothing tempting about that.

“D’you want something to wear?”

“It’s hot,” Roger said as he threw his shirt on Brian’s floor. He kicked, helplessly and dramatically to get his trousers off. Brian turned to his closet, took his shirt off button by button. He didn’t mind seeing Roger’s legs bare and splayed out but he’d rather not be so aware that he didn’t mind. His gaze with Roger could never be uninterested, he always had an opinion on all of it, and he’d really rather not form an opinion on the bare skin between his sheets.

He shut the lights off, ending on his bedside light, and only when the room was bathed in darkness did he allow himself to glance Roger’s way. Just to check if he was still conscious at this point. All of what Brian hoped to avoid getting an eyeful of was hidden under his sheets. Now all he had to focus on ignoring was the heat radiating off him and the knowledge that mere inches from him Roger’s mostly-bare body laid.

“Your mattress is always so nice,” Roger hummed. He’d only been in it a handful of times, Brian remembered each occasion vividly. It was always a case of Roger being drunk and too lazy to make the journey back to his own flat. But those times usually ended with the two of them fully clothed, lying on top of the sheets in a moment of spontaneous exhaustion. He’d never had Roger think this hard about it. Though, Brian was sure, he was the one thinking the hardest about this. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Mhm,” Brian said with his eyes fixed on the blurry spot on his ceiling.

“Mhm,” Roger repeated as he tossed and turned, fluffing his pillow and rolling from side to side to get comfortable until he finally settled on his side, his forehead just barely pressed against Brian’s shoulder. He wasn’t entirely sure in his drunken state Roger had registered it but Brian certainly did.

“For the record,” Brian’s muscles tensed like Roger was a finicky cat who might jump up and leave him if he dared move an inch into a more comfortable position, something that wasn’t lying pin straight with tense shoulders, “I like your Truro stories.”

“Who doesn’t like ‘em?” Roger said, his words coming out with drunken laziness that he could control.

“Oh—no one, I just—Freddie and Tim were…” his words trailed off, no real destination for them in the first place.

“Oh that,” Roger adjusted, shifted closer but not by much, just enough that Brian could be sure it was no accident that he was resting on his shoulder. No accident but no big deal either, Brian reminded himself. Between friends it was nothing to look twice at. “I don’t mind Freddie telling me my stories are too good.” Brian couldn’t see the smirk on his face but he could hear it in his voice.

“I guess you tell him a lot more stories than me,” Brian said, without really thinking about how bitter it might sound.

“What’d’you mean?”

“I mean,” he cleared his throat with such little force, as not to disturb Roger, that it sounded more like a whine, “I mean Tim and I never heard that van story,” he chuckled, hoping to lighten the tone of it all, “I’ve known you much longer than Fred so…”

“Oh,” Roger shifted again, burrowing and trying to get comfortable against Brian’s bony body as he spoke, “it’s not,” his voice slurred both from sleepiness and drunkenness, “it’s not a story I love telling. But he saw the little scar I got from it.” He sighed. “It’s more fun turning it into a joke than sitting telling the truth.”

“What’s wrong with the truth?”

“Too heavy,” Roger said as he rolled away from Brian, onto his back, “I’d rather have a good time. I don’t wanna sit and pick apart the bad shit in my childhood, what’s the fun in that.”

“It’s not about fun,” Brian said, turning his head over to look at Roger in the bluish light of the dark.

“What’s it about?” Roger said, turning to look right back.

“You tell close friends the good and the bad.” That was more direct than Brian intended on being but he’d had enough whiskey to weaken his filter. One more prod and he’d go into a tirade about Roger spending so much time with Freddie.

“That’s what I’ve got Jo for,” Roger laughed.

God, what Brian wouldn’t give to understand his jealousy for her. What was it about Roger that made him not just crave closeness but crave to be the only one who had it. Why did the thought of him sharing his life with someone else twist him up inside? Was he just that alone and desperate for someone to be close with that when someone kind offered him friendship he had to selfishly hoarde it for himself? And as bad as that was, as pathetic and selfish as that explanation was, it was the only one Brian would let himself consider.

“Well,” he coughed, “you don’t have to dump it all on her…if you didn’t want to anyway.”

Roger looked at him sharply, though it wasn’t easy to make out in the darkness. Brian preferred it like that, he’d rather not have the intensity of Roger’s gaze boring a hole into him. “Alright I’ll answer your questions but already told you I was thrown clear, there’s not much else to it.”

“But you—you got a scar?”

“Mhm,” Roger hummed, “here—I’ll show you. Just don’t tell people I go around showin’ it off,” he huffed as he sat up and reached across Brian for the bedside lamp. “Freddie only caught a glimpse of it so this front row seat stays in this room.” The light flicked on, Roger brought his hand back and steadied himself above Brian. “Hello down there,” he mumbled to Brian with a drunken grin. “It’s right here,” Roger reached up and ran his finger across the pink scar on his chest. Almost vertical, just under his collarbone.

“It’s barely there.”

Roger rolled his eyes and reached back for the lamp, tugging it’s chain and darkening the room again. “I know it’s not big or all that deep.” He clumsily flopped back over Brian and into his spot. “Still it was…I didn’t drive for a long while after that.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t—I’m surprised you drive at all after that, that sounds horrifying.”

Roger clicked his tongue. “I don’t really have a right to be…I was thrown clear but I’ve just got that scar. My mates—my bandmates at the time, the guy he’s still picking glass out of his skin, it got embedded so deep it has to work it’s way out and it fuckin’ hurts,” Roger sniffed. “And the girl…it scarred her face, she’s got a…” Roger ran a finger from the high point of his cheek down to his jaw, “mark right there. So…really I shouldn’t bitch about getting thrown,” he said with another sniff. Brian stared at his moonlit face and wracked his tipsy mind for something comforting. He wasn’t used to this, Roger didn’t show emotion very often, not ones he found embarrassing anyway. Part of him wanted to just stop and celebrate that. Freddie didn’t get this side of Roger, this was reserved for old friends. Though, he didn’t know what to do with it, maybe he didn’t really deserve the privilege of Roger’s vulnerability if his only use for it was reassuring himself he ranked higher than Freddie. “See this is why I don’t tell the bad stories. The whole mood’s down.”

“The moods fine,” Brian said with a nervous laugh, glad he wasn’t the one to break the silence. Roger smirked but it faded quick and his eyes stayed locked on the ceiling. Brian stared at the silhouette of Roger’s long dark eyelashes, the glow of his pale skin in the moon, and wondered what it must be like to look so beautiful without any effort. It meant nothing to ogle that objective beauty, Brian decided. And Roger put effort into most of his appearance, especially his hair. But his face. His eyes, his nose, his mouth, it was all effortless and magnetic. He nearly, nearly, reach up. Reached out. Envisioned running his finger tip over the bridge of his nose a few times. “Even with the scar you’re still beauti—” he cut himself off. Shock ran through him like someone had spoken on his behalf. Where was he going with that—why was he saying it?

“Still what?” Roger said, blinking over at him with a crooked grin. Brian’s mind went blank searching for something more normal to fill in that blank. Something that started with ‘beauti’ preferably. “You think I’m beauti-ful,” Roger said, emphasising the stutter Brian had when he’d shut himself up.

“Joke,” Brian said with a dry throat, “just a joke.”

“You seem embarrassed for ‘just a joke’,” Roger teased. “It’s alright, I _am_ beautiful,” he added with a laugh and a hand on his chest, just where his scar was.

Brian just laughed with him, pretending to be in on the joke rather than having narrowly escaped an awkward conversation he’d all but thrown himself into.

“You’re, er, pretty too,” Roger said. His voice carried all the hallmarks of something being said out of obligation. His face showed it too. He seemed to think Brian was waiting for a reciprocation of that sentiment. A sentiment so foreign to him, he laughed when Roger said it. “Why’re you laughing—I was returning the compliment, prick—”

“I know,” Brian said with a grin. Returning the compliment. Brian paled in comparison to Roger’s good looks, it was no secret. And if it was a secret, every woman in the world was in on it. It felt like having his doodles get a compliment off DaVinci. “It’s just funny.”

“You’re so strange,” he mumbled with a tired blink of his eyes. “Well are you gonna even it out and tell me a sad story? Isn’t that what friends do?” He added with a nudge in Brian’s side.

“I’m not interesting enough to have a sad story,” Brian said. The low points in his life could be summed up in a few minutes, maybe that was the biggest tragedy, being so caught up in studies and anxieties he hadn’t let anything happen to him. “Best I can offer you is a promise not to tell anyone you’ve got emotions that aren’t just horny and happy.”

“You’re such a gentleman,” Roger laughed. “Giving me a bed for the night, keeping the big secret that sometimes I get sad.” He smiled in Brian’s direction, Brian smiled back.

“Someone’s got to take care of you.” Brian cringed at his own words, at the way they made him sound like thought a bit higher of himself than he should.

“Freddie’s not very good at it,” Roger said with a laugh, “he gets up to it just like I do, we just egg each other on, no one there to catch us.” He sighed. “But it’s fun that way.”

“Suppose it is.” He wouldn’t know the feeling. The closest he’d come to having someone at his side, egging him on, daring him to branch out a little, have a little more fun, was Roger. That had always been born of Roger wanting someone in the band with the same mischief streak as him, someone around that would match his devil may care attitude. Though Brian tried, it was evident it came easier to Freddie. Everything came easier to Freddie. “Rog,” he cleared his throat, “do you prefer Freddie?”

“Prefer him to what?” Roger yawned and stretched his legs out wide enough to knock Brian’s.

“To…me.”

“What?” He perked up, looked over at Brian with a crooked smile and curious eyes. “What’s that mean?”

Brian glanced over but quickly turned his attention back to ceiling. “Just wondering.”

“Are you jealous or something?”

“No,” he scoffed, it sounded almost cartoonish. “I’m just curious.”

“What’s to be curious about? We’re mates.”

“So are we,” Brian looked his way, putting on the most innocent expression he could muster, “but you’re moving in with Freddie and you’re opening that stall with him, talking about him joining our band and all that…”

“I asked you to move in with us,” Roger said. And he was right. Roger was moving from a shitty student flat, to a different but slightly cheaper shitty student flatshare, while Freddie was moving out of his parent’s house. Roger had excitedly told him that in their bedroom, one of the four beds was free. His flat wasn’t much, but Brian wasn’t going to give up his own bedroom to share with Roger if it meant he’d also be sharing with Freddie and some mystery person in a room no bigger than what he already had.

“After you asked Freddie,” Brian bit back.

“And you said no. What’s your point here?”

“I don’t know,” Brian sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He didn’t know what he was getting at really. Was he going to sit and whine to Roger about how he was better friends with someone more interesting?

“I don’t prefer him,” said Roger after a short silence.

“You can,” Brian mumbled.

“But I don’t,” Roger laughed and nudged Brian’s shoulder. “We’re fast friends, that doesn’t mean he’s my only friend, or even my favourite. He and I have fun, you and I have fun.”

“We do?” Brian glanced his way, still quick when he did it.

“Well,” Roger laughed, “ _I_ think we do.”

“I think we do too,” Brian quickly corrected.

“Good,” Roger replied with a laugh still lacing his voice. There was a beat of silence, which fooled Brian into thinking they might leave it there and fall asleep. But instead Roger sighed and continued on. “I know I bring out the little bit of extroversion he’s got, maybe that makes it seem like us two like being ‘us two’ but that’s all,” he waved his hand vaguely, in front of him then rolled back over, no qualms about facing Brian. “He can get right up to my level of bouncing off the wall and I can keep him there, but eventually he’d rather be around you where it’s calmer and quieter. There’re times when I prefer that too.”

“Thanks,” Brian drew out the ’S’, lingering on the word while he lingered on the thought. Was that a compliment? ‘Freddie’s fun but you’re easy to be around’. ‘Freddie’s dessert and you’re vegetables’. ‘Freddie’s a riot, and you’re…also there’.

A silence set in. That was never something Roger minded. He was chatty and loud but never without purpose. Brian felt comfortable with him because of it, he never felt that pressure to keep a conversation going because he knew Roger didn’t mind. But right then he wished he minded.

What little he’d been given did make sense, but he wanted more. In his head, Roger reassured him by telling him Freddie and him weren’t all that close and if both of them were drowning Roger would save Brian without a second thought. Though maybe that was a little ambitious.

“Wait,” Roger sat up, “did you mean something else?”

“Huh?” Brian huffed. His mood starting to sour as his footing with Roger got more and more vague.

“Did you think me and Freddie were…are…did you think we…” Roger threaded his fingers together in a strange violent motion that, while not exceedingly clear, did make his point apparent to Brian.

“Oh,” Brian said, bright red but not with embarrassment, more like…envy? “No—no I didn’t mean that.”

“Not that—I mean Freddie’s a pretty bloke but—”

“You don’t have to explain, he wouldn’t be offended,” Brian said, mostly because he’d rather not hear Roger compliment him any more. He was almost tempted to let Roger know Freddie’d already tried it on with Tim in hopes that that would maybe spoil his appetite for him. As if he had one. As if Brian had any business caring about it if he did.

“Covering my bases,” Roger laughed and laid back down. He mumbled a quiet ‘d’you mind’ when he settled in closer to Brian who quickly shook his head. “G’night, Bri’n.”

“Goodnight Rog.”

It’d be a little while longer before Brian fell asleep, the whiskey was the only thing bringing him close to it. Without it he’d be wide awake, overthinking. Now he was overthinking but too drunk to pull real conclusions. In this state he didn’t have to think anything all the way through, not how he ached for the few points of contact Roger pressed against him, or how he didn’t dare run a hand through his hair, it didn’t mean anything it was just whiskey. In fact none of it meant anything. Being a jealous friend wasn’t so strange, and who knew, maybe he did have feelings for Jo, maybe he was jealous that Roger got to have her, maybe all this emotion he couldn’t name was just friendship, and maybe he’d laugh at himself for being so ill at ease about it for so long. But for right then, he couldn’t stop the drunken anxiety of the unexplained from churning in the pit of his stomach while he watched Roger sleep and listened to his even, deep breathing until he mercifully drifted off too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again, hell of a month but I swear /this time/ I won't delay again <3 I hope I didn't lose too many of you and I hope you enjoy this chapter <3!! Please comment if you do <3

“Does Chrissie have any friends?” John said tiredly. He and Brian sat in the recording booth, watching through the glass as Freddie and Roger laughed and chatted with Mary and Jo, entirely oblivious to the music they were meant to be recording. “If they get to have girls here, I want one.”

“They really shouldn’t,” Brian sighed. It was coming up on two in the morning, They were only allowed the very late shifts at the studio and even then the time wasn’t exactly limitless. Sure they got more hours than a normal shift but it was three in the fucking morning. They had about a thirty minute window of skilled greatness before the exhaustion made them sound _experimental_. A nice word for juvenile, Brian thought.

“You ought to invite Chrissie up here, she probably feels left out,” John said.

“I have,” Brian shrugged. “Not her speed.” That was part of why he liked her so much. She wasn’t awe-struck by Brian’s work, though right now his real work was being a teacher. But she didn’t have the eye for manipulation. Not how Mary did. It amazed Brian how she’d somehow taken enormous steps backwards with Freddie. Something about her made him crave her approval and what they were all left with was a Freddie that they all pretended hadn’t told them the truth years ago.

Chrissie didn’t have that streak in her. She wasn’t interested in where Brian might go with his music, not monetarily anyway, neither worried nor excited. She was sweet and rather quiet. The sort of person who was worn out by Freddie and Roger’s personalities. Brian couldn’t really imagine her lingering around the studio so late at night with a bunch of loudmouths. In fact, he much preferred his own routine of crawling into bed with her just before the sun rose, just before she had to leave for work. A routine they’d been in for weeks now with the studio time so offbeat and so misused. Even when Mary and Jo weren’t hanging around, Freddie and Roger got up to it all on their own.

“Please,” Brian said, lifting his guitar to his mouth, “can we get on with it?”

Freddie grinned at him through the glass and pressed the mic button. “You’ll get home to Chrissie soon enough and I’m sure she’ll wake up for you.”

Brian just rolled his eyes and hoped the heat in his cheeks wasn’t visible. In truth, he didn’t mind that teasing. He loved Chrissie and he loved being comfortable in that feeling. He didn’t mind Freddie trying and usually succeeding at embarrassing him, that was miles better than that horrible pit of unnamed jealousy he used to feel. Months that went on. Longer than Brian cared to count. Time wasted watching Roger enjoy his life without him. Of course, he wasn’t without him. Brian was right at his side and as much as Roger stuck to Freddie he stuck to Brian. He knew it was silly to feel jealous of his other friends, especially Jo. But he couldn’t help it and for a long while he was sure he’d always feel that low and pathetic.

And then he met Chrissie. Totally detached, totally separate from his life with the band. Met her through friends Roger didn’t even know and didn’t mention her until a few weeks in. She gave him a break from all of that endless and pointless worrying over his standing with Roger. When he was with her he felt normal. Not the facade of normalcy he’d always put on but truly normal. He wasn’t pretending to like Jo and pretending not to be jealous when Roger and Freddie, and now John, went on and on. He didn’t have time for that anymore, all that space in his mind was blocked out by Chrissie.

“Alright,” their engineer sighed into the mic. “I’m going home.”

“It’s only three,” John said, entirely genuine in his indignation. Brian liked to think he was young, and truthfully he was. But John was younger and still in school and his penchant for being able to stay up for days on end was something Brian envied.

“Don’t whine,” Freddie said, “it makes us sound unprofessional.”

“We won’t be professional if we don’t finish this fucking thing,” John snapped.

“See,” Roger shoved Freddie aside for the mic, “you sound like you’re getting cranky.”

John rolled his eyes but knew any contribution past that would just prove Roger’s point. Freddie clapped his hands together when he popped up from his seat and said something John and Brian couldn’t hear from their side of the glass. Brian just ignored it and headed for his guitar case, whatever Freddie said probably wasn’t worth repeating.

“It’ll be months at this rate,” John said. He failed to cover the yawn at the end of his words.

“Is ‘months’ so bad?” Brian clipped his case shut.

“Yes—what _good_ album took months?” he scoffed.

“We could be the exception.”

“Oh—fuck off, everyone thinks they’re the exception.”

“Someone has to be right,” Brian said. John only sighed and heaved his guitar case up. He groaned like it was heavy, like he hadn’t been holding his guitar all night. “Besides—most albums don’t have to be recorded in the dead of night.”

“You’re only proving my point,” John huffed.

Brian didn’t take John’s words to heart, he knew John didn’t either. John could say rather harsh things but he rarely meant them. Not in the way that he didn’t believe what he was saying but he didn’t care about it as much as he let on. Brian didn’t particularly care if John believed the album would succeed as long as he kept showing up. Frankly, he didn’t have much faith in it ever getting pressed but if nothing else this would be a good memory with the four of them. Something to look back on fondly.

John drove himself, every chance he got. It wasn’t easy having a car in London, much harder as a student, but he was obsessed by them. Something he and Roger unfortunately shared. Originally Brian thought it might add a layer of machismo to their look and overall demeanor as a band but, honestly, no band with Freddie had any chance of coming off manly, Roger’s big starlet eyes didn’t help much. So instead all their love for motors did was annoy Brian. Particularly in their newfound habit of critiquing what Brian did with his jalopy.

He loaded his backseat with his guitar. The boot never felt safe after Roger asked what might happen if he got bashed in at the back.

“What’s the rush?” Roger said from the back door of the studio, Freddie at his side.

The rush was a desperate hope to avoid being asked why his car made a horrible pinging noise when he started it up but he settled on, “Chrissie.”

“Good lord,” Freddie groaned. “You can’t be trailing after her this way, it’s not what women want.”

“How would you know?” Roger teased. He was the only one who made jokes like that and got away with them. Freddie might let it slide with Brian but Brian couldn’t imagine broaching the topic.

“Am I taking anyone home?” John unlocked the driver’s side of his car and tried hard to suppress a yawn.

“Me,” Roger replied.

“The train’s a five minute ride,” John huffed.

“You offered to drive me,” Roger said, tugging at the passenger handle already. John glared for a moment then sighed and muttered quick goodnights as he got in his car and reached across to let Roger in. Brian listened to the car start and waved weakly at Roger as the car drove off. Roger didn’t wave but grinned back.

“Well?” Freddie said, pulling just as fervently on Brian’s passenger handle.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Brian said as he made a point to go even slower.

“You’re such a pill,” Freddie spat as Brian heaved his door open. He took great care to move as sloth-like as possible when reaching across to pull the lock up on Freddie’s side. The second he slid it up, Freddie yanked it open and slammed it closed once he was settled, proving a point in his own mind Brian was sure.

Brian let Freddie tune the radio. If he didn’t he’d go mad instructing Brian on what he _ought_ to be listening to. He turned the knob but kept the volume low and eventually gave up with a flustered huff and abandoned the radio on a quiet hum of static.

“You know I think we need new blood on the album,” Freddie said thoughtfully.

“What’re you saying?” Brian scoffed. “We’d never be able to convince someone to feature on our debut album recorded in the dead of fucking night.”

“Not that kind of new blood,” Freddie said, waving his hand like the air of Brian’s words annoyed him. “I mean we need a brand new song. It’s all well and good to play what we know the people want but why buy something you already know?”

“We’ve got new songs on there—”

“But we need something,” he snapped his fingers as he searched for the right word, “something to close it out that’ll make them turn the record back over and start again.”

“D’you have an idea?”

“Not really,” Freddie drummed his fingers against his thigh, “a piano phrase maybe.” He sighed. “If you’ve got any secret weapons up your sleeve, now’s the time.”

“Sorry, Fred,” he laughed, “I don’t have a song I’ve been hiding.”

“Figures.”

“Or,” Brian cocked his head, how had he forgotten, “actually,” it’d been years since he thought of it but if he remembered it right it wasn’t bad, “I think I do have something.”

“Don’t tease me,” Freddie sat up, leaned towards him waiting for more.

“I wrote it a long time ago but I think it holds up,” the notes of the melody were just barely at the edge of his memory, but he knew his hands would remember it, “I’ll try and find it when I get home, see if I can polish it.”

“If it’s not too much trouble could you make it a hit?” Freddie said tiredly. “I’d really prefer a hit.”

Brian grinned. “I’ll make sure it’s a hit before I bring it in.”

“Thank you,” Freddie sighed in relief, “now I can stop worrying about the debut.”

Freddie thanked him for the ride and told him to play the music loud and scream the entire ride home to make sure he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. He turned the radio up for Freddie’s sake and waved to him once he got to the door. He hummed along to it but didn’t shout. Not until he hit the first red light and nearly napped. Then he was shouting the tune to a song he didn’t know the whole way home until he mercifully made it back.

But even with all that exhaustion, when he made it home, he had the energy to whisper a quiet apology to Chrissie as he rifled through an old footlocker of his. Mostly it was old notes that he thought he may one day need but somewhere in the heap was the song. Almost like his fingertips could sense it, he found the sheet of paper within a moment or two and gently closed up the box before making his way to the loo to read it over under the harsh blue light.

~~~

“And then at the— _she did_ ,” he paused the demo tape he’d recorded at his flat that afternoon, “we get some drums some oomph. But overall it’s a ballad so it’s…er…quiet.”

“Mhm,” Freddie said with his brows knitted together.

Brian spent the whole morning at home tinkering with the old melody he’d written. He went back and forth on what to change, what to keep, what the other parts of the band might sound like during the song, though he knew everyone else would have a lot to say about that. Through all his reworking and polishing, not once did this song come off as an album ender. It wasn’t the real wham-bam Freddie wanted to tease their audience with, it was a sprawling love song that had about thirty seconds of speed, and Brian had a feeling it was about to be cut from the lineup.

Better that way, he figured. It’d been years, Brian was happily living with Chrissie, the emotion he’d poured into this song for a woman who turned out to be Roger was all gone. But he still winced when he read the lyrics, or when he played through the melody he’d crafted so long ago. It brought him right back to the week he’d written it all. Those tense and lonely days spent in the library were still so clear in his mind, his thought process while he wrote the song too. His fantasy of finding the woman, marrying her on the spot, and having three or four kids with her while he finished his doctorate, it all made his skin crawl with humiliation. If this went on the album he’d be feeling that every day for who knows how long.

“I love it, really I do but…” Freddie began.

“It’s alright,” Brian said quickly, “I knew we’d need something faster—”

“It’s not that,” Freddie said, “this song’s got real,” he jerked his hands forward and back in, two really weak and uncoordinated underhand punches with shaking fists that Freddie clearly thought were enough to convey whatever word he couldn’t think of, “but it doesn’t fit on the album.”

Half relief half disappointment came over Brian. As embarrassing as the song was, he didn’t dislike the memory. “That’s alright—”

“It should open the next album, I think the plot in it’s lofty enough—”

“Oh Fred,” Brian laughed, “ _next_ album? Where’s your head at?”

“What? You don’t think we’ll get there?” Freddie scoffed.

“I haven’t thought about it honestly, because we work the graveyard shift at a studio.”

“That’ll all change,” Freddie said, waving his hand dismissively. “This’ll open our next album, it’s somber but sort of—it’s got something big inside of it and we can spend the whole album getting it out.”

“If you say so,” Brian replied, just as dismissive.

“So’s it about Chrissie?” Freddie asked with a wink.

“Oh er,” he’d got the same question from Chrissie that morning when she read over the lyrics. He hadn’t been smart enough to lie and blurted out that he wrote it before he ever met her. She wasn’t thrilled with that but he made sure to reiterate that it was about a woman he never got to meet. Technically true. Roger was definitely a woman he hadn’t met, “no it—I wrote it while I was in school.”

“Hm,” Freddie didn’t look satisfied with that answer, “so who’s it about?”

“Er,” Brian stared, trying to remember if anyone had told Freddie the exact story of how he and Roger met. It wasn’t an interesting story especially all that time after the fact, there didn’t seem to be a reason for it to get told but… “I er, saw a woman on campus, well—in a library, from a distance, I didn’t get a good look. But I knew about a book she needed so I found the book and I planned on giving it to her but,” he shrugged, “I never saw her again.”

He held his breath, waiting for recognition to flash in Freddie’s eyes. If Freddie had heard the story from Roger, Brian could always insist the book had been for a real woman who didn’t show and he tossed the book to Roger when he gave up his search. But either way he, probably stupidly, felt the origin informed too much of the song to try and lie about it. The emotion was too obvious to give it any other explanation.

“Did you ever get her name?” Freddie said. Brian let some of the tension in his jaw go then, knowing Freddie hadn’t been told the story.

“No,” he sighed, “but I love Chrissie, it’s not like I miss her.”

“Of course not,” Freddie said with a lopsided smile that read as pity, “still, I wish there was an end to the story.”

There was one, but not one Brian could give him. “Me too.”

That was enough to satisfy Freddie’s curiosity and he moved on quickly to going over a piano piece he hadn’t quite placed. Their time at the studio was strange but it was essentially unlimited leaving them open to coming in a little later and fiddling around with the instruments while the place was a ghost town. Brian moved to the booth to listen to Freddie doodle on the piano, Roger came in late but well rested and sat by Freddie on the bench, insisting he press the pedals for him.

The only person who wasn’t able to become nocturnal for the sake of their recording time was poor John who was still in the midst of school and who, for the top of most nights at the studio, slept on the ratty couch in the booth. No sense in waking him, they had four more hours all their own, it wouldn’t kill anyone if John slept through one of those.

~~~

“Is there anyway we can do our bits and let him go on into the night?” John said, rubbing his tired eyes in the cramped and dingy break room.

“I’m afraid he’ll be a pest until he gets it just to his liking,” Freddie sighed. The coffee pot beeped, this horrible screeching noise, and Freddie got three mugs out. John was the only one who still had room to complain about Roger’s perfectionism. Brian and Freddie had known him far too long to be surprised by how he worked. Brian knew if they all were totally honest with themselves, they’d go easy on him since all four of them were perfectionists but Roger was the only one who couldn’t always practice. His drumkit didn’t fit in his minuscule flat and the place he rented for them worked in two hour increments. Brian couldn’t imagine getting his guitar for just two hours a day on a schedule. What if inspiration struck at midnight as it often did?

“That’s why,” Brian heaved his bag from the floor to the laminate table, “I brought papers to grade.”

“Y’know for once I’m ahead of all my assignments,” John said with a shrug. “Shouldn’t I be out with friends or something right now?”

“First of all,” Freddie said, slamming John’s mug of coffee down in front of him, “we are your friends.” He pulled his chair out and sat with the three of them. “Second of all, no, you go out at ten, not three. If you were out with friends this would be the time that most people had already gone home with someone and every left out was an alcoholic or crying.”

John smirked. “That still sounds better than listening to Roger replay the same eight bars all night.”

“Let him go,” Freddie said, “he’s trying to find our next big hit.”

“What about Brian’s song?” John said with a yawn.

“I told you, that needs it’s own album.”

“You showed him the tape?” Brian said, looking up from the papers he was marking.

“He loved it, didn’t you John?” Freddie reached over to pinch John’s cheek.

“I did,” John said, “I really hope we get to record it one day,” John said pointedly at Freddie.

“It needs its own album,” Freddie bit back. “Plus it’s got the most adorable backstory and we need more fame so when I make it a note on the lyrics page the woman from the song can actually find him.”

“Adorable backstory?” John chuckled.

“Oh—he doesn’t wanna hear it,” Brian said, his grip on his biro tightening. He didn’t think John knew the story but he’d rather keep it between a few walls. The whole world could know and he wouldn’t care, but the whole world would tell Roger and that was something he couldn’t handle. There was no way to lie to Roger about it, he’d know exactly what happened, he’d put it all together in an instant and Brian would have absolutely no recourse. Better, the story stayed between one or two people who quickly forgot it.

“Sure he does—it might give him ideas for something to add to the next album,” said Freddie.

“Next album?” John tried to hide a laugh.

“Yes,” he spat, “the next album. I think it needs more story behind it, and Brian’s is great—he saw this—this woman at uni and he didn’t get her name but he bought the book she was looking for to give to her, but never found her, isn’t that poetic?”

“Oh…” John’s voice carried a certain stammer. Brian eyed him, carefully and deliberately, looking for signs of recognition in his eyes. He caught Brian’s eye, stared back with confusion mostly and irritation at Brian’s intense glare before he answered, “so did you ever find her?”

Two bullets carefully dodged. “No, I never did.”

“See—so we should put this backstory in the liner notes and—”

“And I’ve got Chrissie,” Brian interrupted with a fake and forced laugh. “What would be the point in it?”

“A dramatic reunion and a story for the third album,” Freddie said flatly, as if i should’ve been obvious.

“I don’t think she’d go for that.”

“Did she even go for the song?” John said.

Here was his chance. “Actually—no she was really upset that I had this song about another woman so maybe we shouldn’t ever again mention who it’s about, let’s just leave it a mystery to everyone outside this room.” That was as close to ‘don’t tell Roger’ as he could get without it being too conspicuous, about as forceful as he could be on the matter too. Any more urgency or insistence would prompt more questions but hopefully this was enough.

“Fine,” Freddie huffed, “but I was really looking forward to her finding the album.”

“She never would’ve known it was her,” said John. “All she’d have to go off of was that someone she hadn’t noticed saw her.”

“I suppose,” Freddie pouted with his chin in his hand. “Maybe we can lie and say it happened on the liner notes anyway.”

“Chrissie would still be literate,” John said, patting Freddie’s shoulder.

“Make up your own story for it,” Brian said. Wouldn’t that be perfect? He’d sneak in this pathetic little tribute to the glimpse of Roger he’d caught, covered beautifully by some fairytale Freddie would weave himself in the breakroom. He’d never have to explain it, not to Chrissie, not the fans, and by some miracle—not to Roger either. Maybe, if he played his cards right, the demo wouldn’t make it to Roger. Maybe they’d forget about it until the next album and by then they would’ve forgotten the story too.

He took a big gulp of his too-hot coffee and sucked in deep breaths. It’d be fine. It was a good song, it was worthy of pitching to the band and the backstory could fall away and be lost to time. If ever he was asked about it’s origins he could pretend he forgot them or at very least take the time to craft a convincing lie. It’d be fine.

~~~

Once Roger finally opened up the studio, claiming he’d got it down perfectly, the idea of Brian’s song fell by the wayside as they focused on the immediate urgency of the album and their dwindling energy. Perfect, Brian thought. Roger would never even hear the song. Not until Freddie decided it was time for a second album which, if he was honest, didn’t look exceedingly likely. John was right, it wasn’t very typical for a big success to be recorded between one and four am over the course of months and months. But on the chance it did succeed, it’d be awhile before the second, awhile before Roger heard the song. Even then, who knew if he’d heard the backstory behind it.

And even then. He had Chrissie. He couldn’t lie to Roger and call it a mixup, Roger wouldn’t buy that, there was no point trying to sell it. But he could explain that, well, he’d mistaken Roger for a woman and written the song before he knew the truth, and that was where it ended. When he met Roger. The lingering confusion around him, that could all be left out. Brian was sure his desire to be Roger’s closest friend was somehow totally unrelated to the week and…a few days…he spent totally smitten with him. That all didn’t need to be mentioned. It meant nothing and Chrissie was the proof. The living-in-his-flat proof.

One day came and went, then two, then three, then four. Uneventful, filled only with the strange tedium of performing something rote that was created with passion.

“Alright,” Freddie said over the loudspeaker, “you need a break.”

“What was wrong _that_ time?” Brian snapped.

“No soul!” John said behind Freddie, loud enough to come in through mic. Brian rolled his eyes. He’d been getting the same note for two days now no matter how he played.

“You’re not playing like you’re usual self,” Freddie said, looking more concerned than annoyed.

“Sure I am,” though Brian knew that might not be true. The technical skill was all there but his mind was on the stack of papers he had to finish before he got to bed that night.

“Play like you did on the tape,” Freddie said.

“What tape?” Brian cocked his head.

“Yeah, what tape,” Roger said at Freddie’s side, his voice softer from not being in the firing line of the microphone.

“Oh—Oh—no—no we don’t need to hear the tape,” Brian flubbed out, too flustered to sound breezy about it.

“What tape?” Roger repeated, this time with a mischievous grin thrown Brian’s way.

“I’ll play it,” Freddie said.

“Really—it’s alright,” said Brian, his guitar hoisted up so he could scream into the microphone.

“Shush!” Freddie grumbled then set about handing the tape off to the producer.

_Okay,_ Brian thought, _it’s just the song._ He’d written tons of songs, and Roger had heard basically all of them. He had not once asked about the meaning of them, not once. He wouldn’t break the streak now and there was no reason for Freddie or John to break it for him. He was in the clear.

But even if he wasn’t in the clear, he had Chrissie. His shining beacon of internal innocence that would absolve him of any crimes he _definitely_ didn’t commit while writing the song.

“Why do you look so terrified,” Roger teased, leaning across the soundboard for the microphone. “That bad?”

“It’s er,” Brian huffed, trying not to outright hyperventilate, “it’s just so unpolished,” he said as convincingly humble as he could.

A loud click signified the tape’s beginning. Brian stood, stock still in the empty studio, watching the three of them through glass as his flimsy intro played in his headphones and in the booth.

“Like that!” Freddie said as the guitar picked up, just barely covering his vocals, and then, mercifully, he stopped the tape. “Play like that and I won’t bother you the rest of the night.”

“S-sure,” Brian said, trying not to look too relieved. Roger’s curiosity may get the better of him, he may ask for the whole tape, but Brian could give it to him, in a controlled environment where no one would be shouting the backstory out over the lyrics. Frankly, all these years later, he was curious to know what Roger thought, even if he wasn’t the woman he’d dreamed of he was close.

Not that close, of course.

Brian eased into his playing, put his student’s papers at the back of his mind and focused on the notes. He’d really rather not have Freddie whip the tape out again and have Roger insist it be played in full. Two takes later, the guitar solo was locked in and Freddie declared they needed a coffee break before the backing track for the next song. With the sun only hours away from the horizon, Brian wasn’t sure coffee would be enough but he certainly wouldn’t turn it down.

“What’re we supposed to have done by tonight?” John said, blinking the sleepiness out of his eyes while the steam from his coffee warmed him.

“I don’t even remember,” Roger huffed. Not a good sign considering he’d made the schedule.

“We could promise each other to work very hard tomorrow and go to bed right now,” Freddie said, “or Roger could get that friend of his to bring us some speed.”

“I’m voting for speed,” John said.

“He and I aren’t friends anymore—he made a pass at Jo then got sick on my carpet, I’m not calling him of all people at three in the morning for emergency speed,” Roger spat.

“I’m sure he’s a changed man,” Freddie plead.

“If he’s a changed man he wouldn’t give me speed, let’s just dunk our heads in cold water.”

“Y’know, I don’t hate that idea,” John said. He thought for a second then set his coffee down and stretched. “If you need me I’ll be in the loo givin’ myself a swirlie.”

“Make that two,” Brian said, heaving himself to his feet and shaking the tiredness out of his hands when he did.

“Let us know if it works,” Freddie said.

“It can’t hurt anything,” Brian shrugged.

“Oh—and hurry up,” Roger said, his sleepy grin reappearing, “I wanna hear that tape all the way through before we get going again—it sounded great.”

“Oh—er—sure, yeah, sure,” Brian said, off his footing. Nothing to panic about. If he showed him the song in an isolated room there would be no one interjecting, there would be no way for him to know the beauty being described was his own, it’d just be a nice song that no one ever, ever spoke the origins of.

He stumbled his way to the loo and caught John mid-splash at the sink, gasping for air. “God, I’m so fucking sick of working like this,” John said, spitting out the water in his mouth. He brushed back the wet strands of hair before reaching for a towel and hitting himself dry rather than patting.

“One more week like this and we’ll be done, I’m sure of it.”

“We were supposed to be done last week,” he huffed.

There was no way to politely say ‘you should know how Freddie and Roger get by now’ so Brian stayed quiet and splashed some of the icy water in his own face. It did give him an initial burst of energy. Energy that was spent by the time he was patting his face dry.

“If you’re so miserable, you can quit after this album,” Brian said.

“No,” John said, sounding a lot like a petulant toddler, “but I wish I didn’t have this _and_ exams.”

Brian smirked at the grumpy, sleepy expression John wore. It was easy to forget he was the youngest and sometimes acted like it. It was hard to blame him at this point. They’s begun their real recording in the middle of the summer and now it was time for John’s midterms. The worst part being, none of them could really pinpoint what it was that took so fucking long. Even at one song a night they were months behind. Even at one song every two nights they were months behind. Something about having to work so late made them move at an inhumanly slow pace.

He might’ve pointed out how much more progress he made on his little demo tape outside the studio, but John didn’t look like he’d find that funny just then.

“C’mon, we need the rhythm tape,” Brian patted his shoulder and lead him back down the hall and around the corner to their recording booth.

Freddie held the door for John and hurried him in. Brian whipped the door open for the producing booth, ready to claim his well-earned break. The producer sat in the first chair, Roger sat in the second, but only Roger jumped when the door slammed open.

“Christ—don’t sneak up on people like that!” Roger spat.

“Sorry,” Brian spat back. He didn’t have the patience for one of Roger’s moods. Though, thankfully they came and went much faster than Freddie’s. “But you’re supposed to be on drums anyway, it’s the backing track.”

“Okay,” Roger said, still biting in tone but something about it didn’t feel like one of Roger’s over-tired tantrums. For a moment Brian wondered if he had actually _done_ something to him in the last few minutes. But Roger gave no indication of anything else. He kept his head down as he meandered out of the room, and as he drummed. If anyone else noticed, they attributed it to the exhaustion sweeping through the four of them, and truthfully, that was the only explanation for it Brian could pin down.

~~~

With everyone a little off, and Roger more out of it than usual, Brian found himself nodding off in the booth. They stopped and started when one would fall behind or the other would speed up. Half in and half out of consciousness Brian could only think of how his work wasn’t over, how he needed to mark up papers when he got home before he’d be allowed to sleep. Maybe, he thought, Chrissie might’ve learned physics and marked his papers for him. That was a nicer thought to ruminate on, much better than imagining the nap he’d have to take in his car during lunch the next day.

“I’m calling it,” the producer said.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Brian said with a tired laugh.

The producer leant into the mic, warned everyone he was leaving and anything played once he’d gone wouldn’t get recorded. No one on the other side of the glass seemed to mind that at all. John practically had his guitar off his back the moment the producer pinged in on their headphones.

“See you lot tomorrow night,” he said with a yawn. Brian thanked him, he knew no one else had the energy to, and waved him off as he left the booth.

“Alright,” Freddie said, rubbing his tired eyes, “good work everyone.”

“Not good enough to be on the album, but good,” John said with a cheeky grin. Freddie didn’t argue with him.

“Who’s driving me home,” Freddie stood and stretched his back out.

“Why d’you say that like it’s a fucking question,” Roger spat. “You made me bring Jo’s car in so I could drive you home and now you’re asking for rides?

“Well if Brian or John had said yes, you’d be off the hook, I was doing you a favour.”

Brian rolled his eyes and stood, stretched out his tired muscles and tried to remember what he’d brought to the studio. With the hours getting so late, it was easy to forget if anything important had tagged along. He’d once left his wallet behind and got it back the next night with only his IDs left inside. As he was patting pockets, checking for his keys and his picks, John peeked his head into the booth and said a quick goodbye.

He was always the first out. He had a right to be, especially with exams on the horizon. Brian waved goodbye as the door swung closed then clicked his guitar case open. His guitar was never light-weight but after such long nights it felt especially heavy. It made him envy Freddie and Roger whose instruments stayed in the studio. Of course, he’d sooner die than leave his guitar out of his sight.

“Can you start the car?” Roger’s drum mic flickered, his voice just barely audible.

“Fine but if I break it it’s not my fault,” Freddie said. He caught Roger’s keys as Roger tossed them to him.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Roger said with a laugh. “I’ll be out in a just minute.”

“Oh—that’s right, you’ve got to hear that song—”

“Yeah, just go warm the car up,” Roger snapped. Brian looked up then, he’d nearly forgotten about sampling his demo for Roger. He grinned, almost waved at Roger through the glass. Roger looked back with a strange sort of indifference on his face. Probably the exhaustion. It was hard work playing at all hours for all of them, but Roger was doing _real_ work, he wore out faster.

“Pushy,” Freddie huffed on his way out. He waved at Brian through the window in the booth door but didn’t stop to say goodbye. Brian didn’t blame him, they’d all rather be home and wouldn’t be mincing words to get there.

Although, Roger was still by his kit. Tinkering with the height of a cymbal. Since when did he give a shit?

“Rog, er,” Brian said awkwardly into the mic, “if you’re done, you can come listen to the demo, it’s not too long.”

“Ah—uh-huh,” Roger said with his teeth grit tight.

Brian cocked his head, “you don’t _have_ to,” he said with a tense laugh. Roger wasn’t one to shy away from hearing new potential songs, even when he hated them, he enjoyed the process of explaining why. “If you think it’s no good—”

“It’s—” he sighed and spoke as he headed for the door. Whatever he said, Brian missed since it was in no proximity to the microphones, but it didn’t look like much beyond an exasperated mumble. Like Brian had really infringed on his free time when he offered to let Roger listen to the song _like Roger asked him to._ Roger pulled the recording booth door open like it might shatter which had Brian pulling a face. Roger had a lot of unpredictable moods but they were never so cryptic.

The sound booth door inched open. Inched. And Roger peeked out from behind it, using the door as a shield. What from, Brian had no idea. A second more and he took a step in. Just one step, just enough for the door to close and for Roger to press himself against the far wall.

“Er,” Brian said with a laugh, “so do you want to hear it?”

“I do but…look, Brian,” Roger sighed and rubbed his eyes, “Freddie mentioned that…this love song you’ve written is about a girl you…met at a library and gifted a book to and…”

If Roger spoke more, Brian didn’t hear it. A half-grin frozen on his face as he nodded along like he was listening despite his ears only able to pick up on a horrible high pitched ring for a moment or two. He’d planned for this, he’d thought it through. He knew what to say, how to deflect it all and make it seem totally harmless and innocent, much of that involved mentioning Chrissie and how in love with her he was. And though he knew his exit strategy for this, he did assume it’d be a bit longer than one fucking week before he had to use it.

“I don’t know,” Roger said, crossing his arms over his chest, “I mean…if this is your way of trying to tell me something, I’d rather you just said it—”

“It’s not about you,” Brian said.

“Brian,” Roger said with pity.

“No—it’s really not, I swear,” Brian brought his hands up to card through his hair, to make him look more at ease and sure of what he was saying. Unfortunately his hands were shaking like mad and the way he snapped them down to his arm rests didn’t make him seem calm or collected.

“Brian, who else could that be about—”

“Well—okay,” in his head this went a lot smoother. Roger would ask him who the song was about, Brian would tell him the story he’d perfectly crafted. That he’d met a woman that needed that book, that he carried it too long and pawned it off on Roger when he gave up on finding that woman and not once, ever, did he think about Roger in any light other than platonic. And for the finishing move he’d remind Roger, with a conceited laugh, that he was in love with Chrissie. But what came out was… “I thought you were a woman when I first saw you.”

The words had regurgitated themselves up and though they killed that sad look of pity on Roger’s face, they replaced it with deep confusion, maybe even fear.

“You what?”

“Look I—I…” off the rails so quickly. How had that happened when this whole reveal went so smoothy in the shower? “I,” he took a deep breath in, “the way we met wasn’t really…off the cuff, I planned it like that. About a week beforehand I saw you—through a bookshelf and from a distance and I thought you were a pretty woman.”

Roger blinked. “You…a week before we met you saw me and thought I was a girl?”

“Yes,” in his head, it never came out like this. Every time he rehearsed it, he turned it around, made Roger feel silly for ever thinking the song was about him. Now, with even the smallest amount of pressure, he’d caved and told the truth.

“You can’t be serious—”

“I am,” Brian sat forward, just a bit, didn’t loosen his pneumatic grip on the arm rests though, “I genuinely only caught glimpses of you and then you were just gone. For all I knew you were a beautiful woman and—and I bought that fucking book and waited a week to see _that woman_ again, and _that_ is when I wrote the song and _that_ is who it’s about. Not you. It’s a woman that doesn’t exist.”

Something in Roger loosened up then. He eyed Brian with suspicion still, but he made his way to the empty seat the producer had left, that was something.

“So you…saw what you thought was a woman, bought her the book she was looking for and wrote this song?”

“Yes—that’s it,” Brian said. “When I found it was you…well…” well what? Brian’s own thoughts scoffed at him. It wasn’t like finding out Roger was Roger had changed anything. Not immediately. He could admit to himself he’d spent almost a week confused over it. That was all he’d admit to though.

“Y’know…” Roger leant back in his chair, “this does explain why you gave me a brand new textbook for free even though we had never met.” Brian just laughed. So far this hadn’t become a disaster. So far.

“Yes—and that’s why I asked you out—it was all because in my head you were this goddess.” Goddess? Did he have to say goddess? Of all the fucking words he could’ve chosen did it have to be otherworldly?

“Wait, you never asked me out,” Roger said.

“Well—I asked you to coffee,” Brian shrugged.

“But,” Roger squinted, like he was waiting for Brian to see the error in his logic or his memory, “by then you were talking to me, so…”

“So what?”

“So you knew I was a man.”

“Oh,” Brian had almost forgotten that himself. It wasn’t first sight, first word, first exchange that tipped him off, it was Roger’s name. He wondered how long he might’ve gone if Roger never introduced himself. “I er—I actually didn’t put it together until you gave me your name.”

Roger grinned. That was probably good. Better than a scowl. “For that long—you genuinely thought—after you’d gotten a close look—after you spoke to me you still didn’t know?!”

“I—I don’t know—I wasn’t expecting you to be a man, it took me longer to notice,” Brian said. “In my own defense—you were very girly back then.”

“I was not,” Roger said, though he was already laughing, he knew it was true. His laughter kept up but his gaze drifted. Brian’s didn’t. He laughed with him but kept a careful watch of every expression that flashed over Roger’s smiling face. “I can’t believe you never told me that, that’s gold.”

“Well…it’s embarrassing,” Brian said. That was a truth he didn’t feel needed to be held back.

“It is,” Roger said, meeting Brian’s eyes with a wide grin, “and now I have to hear this fucking song.”

“Oh—er,” suddenly that didn’t sound like a great idea. For some reason, Brian felt his stomach turn at the idea of Roger having a go at it or laughing his way through the lyrics. The song wasn’t for him, it wasn’t about him, but...

“Come on,” Roger jumped to his feet, “I won’t make fun,” he said as he turned the tape deck on and rewound the tape. “Plus, Freddie seemed to think it was really worth something.” He hit play. “I must be a good muse,” he teased, pinching Brian’s arm on the way back to his seat.

“It’s really—it’s rough and—” Brian said, talking over the guitar introduction Roger’d heard earlier.

“Shush!” he said with a smirk.

Writing the lyrics all those years ago felt like divine inspiration. Fishing them from his old notes and bits of songs felt like striking gold. Recording it in the demo for Freddie felt like he’d caught lightning in a bottle. Hearing his voice croon unevenly over the tapedeck’s speakers while his lyrics went on and on about how beautiful, how ethereal and unattainable _Roger_ was—well, that made him truly confident that during the one or two minute nap he’d accidentally taken during recording he had in fact slipped into the seventh circle of hell. Each passing moment may as well have been an eternity. He knew he was bright red, knowing that he was red made him redder. He mostly kept his eyes on a dial on the soundboard, something to fiddle with until this nightmare ended. But occasionally he’d glance at Roger.

His face had a lingering smirk on it but mostly he was expressionless, lost in the song, with his eyes unfocused and staring off into space. Brian did, by some horrible twist of fate, catch his eye once. Roger smiled like he’d seen Brian through a crowd then looked away once more.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was that good? Was that a ‘I actually like this song and don’t find it the least bit embarrassing’ smile, or was it a ‘this is hard to listen to so I’m going to politely smile’ smile? The last lyric ended, his guitar playing started to slow. Though listening to the tape had been pure hell, having to _discuss_ it had him wishing for a spontaneous firing squad.

“Wow,” Roger said when the tape clicked off. His smile was still prominent but didn’t give Brian much insight into what he thought. “Is it really about me?”

“Er,” he hadn’t expected that, “er—it’s well—I told you it’s about the—“

“Yeah yeah,” he rolled his eyes, and huffed. His smile softened and his hand came up to fiddle with his necklace. He always did when he was thinking too hard about something. “I did really like it.”

“That’s—yeah--that’s,” Brian sighed in relief, “that’s good—I was worried you might er…take it the wrong way.”

“What are stars of lovingness?” Roger asked, like he hadn’t even heard Brian speak. “And why are they in my hair?” he added.

“Oh that,” if he could’ve gone redder he might’ve, “well I…” he sighed, “you know when you…” how could he explain this without it sounding totally strange, “it’s sort of meant to be—sort of like looking through rose tinted glasses?” Roger nodded, the look on his face made it clear he didn’t know where Brian was going. “Well when I saw you…everything was so amplified—may as well have had stars in your hair,” he laughed a short chirpy laugh that hardly sounded human. “So er…it’s sort of meant to be that, it’s like…what I saw when I saw you.”

“Hm,” Roger said, a thoughtful hum that Brian had no clue to what to do with, “you really saw all that when you saw me?”

“Well it…I didn’t get a good look,” Brian said with a nervous laugh, “it was just—y’know…I saw a glimpse of you through the books, just your eyes but…y’know they’re so big and your eyelashes go on forever…” what was the point he was trying to make? “I guess that’s sort of—I mean I saw your face up close but in bits, and the whole of you was so far away, I think it made it all easier to see you like that. Stars and all,” he added with a nervous grin. He felt like he’d teetered a little left of how casual he wanted to sound.

Roger just grinned, lopsided and sincere. “That’s actually sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“Sweet,” Roger repeated. Roger put his hands on his knees, leant forward like he might do something, maybe stand, but then froze all at once, still grinning. Before Brian could ask what he was thinking, what he was doing, Roger muttered a quiet ‘yeah’ under his breath, giving himself permission. Permission to roll his chair over the short distance to Brian, to grip Brian’s arm rests and hold on tight when he leant forward and pressed his lips to Brian’s.

That’s all it was really. Brian’s mouth was shut too tight for it to be considered a kiss. Roger held it there for a moment, though Brian couldn’t know why.

“Rog,” he said, muffled against Roger’s lips. His attempt to speak gave his jaw a little slack and gave Roger a chance to shift from an awkward mashing of mouths to a real kiss.

Real was just the word for it. It sent a shock of electricity up his spine. He sighed into it like he belonged there and wondered if maybe he should reach out for Roger, pull him in closer? Roger hadn’t pushed it farther than what the average twelve year old was up to, but it felt like more, and there was no part of Brian that had any holdups about giving more to Roger.

But it ended too soon to bring any of that to fruition. Roger pulled back with a grin and patted Brian’s cheek a little too rough, jolting him out of the daydream he’d slipped into.

“You’re so red,” Roger said with a quiet laugh. His hand lingered on Brian’s neck, then his collar, then lifted off entirely.

“What was…” Brian mumbled as Roger rolled his chair back and stood, “what was that for?”

“For writing such a lovely song about me,” Roger said, his face scrunched up like Brian ought to have known that.

“Oh,” was all he could manage.

“Don’t get all puritan,” Roger huffed. 

“Huh?” Brian snapped out of it. “I wasn’t—I’m—I’m just tired.”

Roger rolled his eyes, not believing a word of it. “Thanks for the song, Bri,” Roger said, “sorry that was all I could give you in return but...well, you've heard my songs, it'd be months before I finished a ballad for you.”

“It’s—it’s—that’s, er,” Brian stood, shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended to be a normal person, “that’s just—that’s good.”

Roger smirked, holding back a bigger laugh and reached for his jacket, swinging it on over his shoulders while Brian stumbled to his feet.

Was that normal? Was it normal to kiss a friend with such…well there was no passion. It’d been perfectly above board but it wasn’t normal. Even a chaste kiss between two grown men had to have some sort of social rule against it—hell, it wasn’t like women went around doing that sort either. Since when was a thank-you kiss even an option in English etiquette? Surely it had to be Roger who was the strange one.

“Hurry up,” Roger urged. Brian’s hands shook when he fished the tape from the tape deck. Once he’d packed it away Roger led the way out, not saying much, but he wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, if Brian had to guess he’d say Roger had already forgotten he’d done that.

How was that fair? How could he do something so odd, so out of place and then act like it didn’t matter? Especially when it’d left Brian so dizzied.

He waved a goodbye to Roger across the carpark and got in his icebox of a car. He dropped his keys twice before successfully shoving them into the ignition. One chaste kiss, one innocent, albeit strange, thank-you, and Brian was putty in his hands. In that moment, Roger could’ve taken anything he wanted from him and Brian would’ve handed it over with enthusiasm. His stomach sank at that realisation, that he’d dodged a bullet when Roger pulled away and walked them out. There would’ve been nothing else stopping him. All from one kiss that could just barely be classified as such.

He dragged in a deep breath that left him too quickly. Then once more, a bit more controlled. Then he put his car in reverse and started the journey back home to his bed and to Chrissie.

_Chrissie._

He nearly forgot about her. What did that say about him? In that moment she may as well have never existed. He didn’t give his years long relationship with her a second thought or even a first thought when Roger was close. He rubbed his forehead that had broken out in a cold sweat, half from the clammy temperature in his car, half from his pounding heart. It beat against his ribs like Chrissie caught him. Like he’d done something horrible and Chrissie somehow knew she hadn’t crossed his mind the whole time.

Although, Brian thought as he eased his brakes on at the last red light before he made it home, he probably hadn’t cut himself enough slack. He wasn’t one to assume that, generally he was sure he’d given himself too much leeway. But this was different. He’d spent a few days now reliving that week when a glimpse of Roger had him totally besotted, and consequently, reliving the week or two…or three…or four when he first new Roger and those feelings hadn’t quite faded. He’d been living in the poetry that came of that, it was no wonder Roger throwing such a curveball threw him off his footing.

It wasn’t those lingering feelings come back, it wasn’t a deeply embedded desire for Roger, it was a surprise. He loved Chrissie, he knew he did, so why worry over a hypothetical he never got to test? Why twist himself in guilty knots over his first but not final thought when Roger broke all codes of conduct.

“It’s fine,” Brian muttered to himself as he parked.

He crossed his arms and meandered up to his flat through the cold. Relaxing the closer he got to her. For a long while now Chrissie was his wailing wall for these sorts. Certainly when they’d first met, and more recently when John joined the group and Roger took him in like they were separated brothers. She was always able to pull his focus and remind him of what he wanted.

The door creaked when it opened, he knew that always woke her but she said she didn’t mind it. If she stirred a bit when Brian came home she wouldn’t wake up with a jolt when he crawled in bed next to her. He shed his jacket, his shoes, his shirt, and eased the bedroom door open before shedding his trousers and slinking under the warmth of the covers with her.

Half awake, she rolled over, blinked once and grinned at him. “How was it?” she said with a croaky voice.

“Just fine,” Brian said with a smile. All better already. Just her sleepy grin was enough to pull him back to himself. She nestled in closer and warmed him up quick, she hated when he came in from the freezing cold siphoned off all her heat but she gave it to him anyway. Just her nature. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” Chrissie replied, her words slurring as she fell back asleep. Brian admired her for a moment, then shifted closer, kissed with a tired gentleness that she reciprocated with a soft sigh. Nothing. No electricity, no spark, no shiver up his spine, not even a pounding in his heart.

He pulled back, eyed her like maybe he’d missed something, maybe this wasn’t Chrissie at all, and when it was he kissed her again, a bit rougher, more needy. How he wished Roger would’ve kissed him. Nothing. No epiphanic calmness or excitement just a strange sense of disappointment that he’d never felt with her.

She sighed, and rolled on her back, away from him, “I’m too tired for more,” she hummed.

“Me too,” Brian all but panted. He rolled on his back too, stared at the ceiling for clarity and closed his eyes when he didn’t get any.

His head would clear up in the morning. Chrissie normally fixed it with one look but it was a long and strange night, he’d just need rest to see straight again.


End file.
